


Rehab

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe, Angst, Drama, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Points of View
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-15
Updated: 2007-07-19
Packaged: 2018-12-27 12:52:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 47,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12081429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: Brian's doing a stint as a mentor for community service and there's one boy no one seems to be able to reach. He and this young man find a mutual bond on some level that neither really believed existed...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

  
Author's notes: Feedback loved- My first time writing like this--! <:>

* * *

"So. You're Brian Kinney. Hm."

I clench my jaw, raise an eyebrow and smile curtly.

"Mr. Kinney, this evaluation shows that there may be some... issues... with your temper, if you will... I'm sorry if I'm being too blunt..."

"You mean the test results indicate that I'm an insufferable asshole."

Mr. Munch or Minch or March or whatever clears his throat, uncomfortable with *my* bluntness. Who gives a shit- just say it how it is. "Er, yes, that would be one way to put it..." he mumbles.

"So, even though it's required for my community service, I'm such a jerk that I can't be a kid's mentor or 'big brother' or whatever the fuck you call it?"

He shifts in his seat, obviously wanting this 'interview' to be over with. "Well, for the most part, yes. But there's one case... one young man who... well--"

"Let me guess: there's one ornery bastard who no one else can reach or tolerate that you're willing to give over to me..." 

"Um. Well. Well, yes, frankly- I mean I wouldn't have phrased it that way, but yes. He's older, too. He's 17, but juvee has made him into something of an exception for this program. He has... he has had and has always had serious problems with forming attachments with people... he's kind of--"

"Again, let me guess: he's 'kind of' like me- I could be him in 18 years, sitting in this chair."

"Well, from looking at your test results, it seems that you and he have certain... tendencies... in common, yes."

"Fuck that. What's his fucking problem?"

Mr. M- Mr. 'whoever' turns red and crosses his legs just to do something with himself. 

"He was abused since he was a baby. Tortured, really. He ran away from home at 13, was caught and returned to his home two months later, and after that, he continued to run away and get caught periodically. Drugs and shoplifting and violence became his way of life both at 'home', and once he finally ended up on the streets for good at 15. But, at 17, he was arrested and sent to juvenile detention... Ummm, Mr. Kinney... I have to tell you also that... that this boy has brain damage..."

Brain damage??

"He, uh, he was badly beaten by his parents (who are now in prison, thankfully), but the alcohol and drugs he consumed are the real problem. He's been clean only two and a half months since he was arrested- so relapsing is a major concern. It will always be, of course, but it's all still new, and the brain damage he suffers manifested only weeks ago- so he's not only dealing with trying to stay clean, he also has to concentrate on walking without falling, speaking clearly, and he can't write very well. He has a lot to cope with all at one time." Mr. M. pauses, eyeing me. I keep my face expressionless, unreadable. "I realize that all this that I'm telling you sounds like he's a dead-end wash-up, even if he's only 17... but he's not. He's bright- just a little addled right now as he rehabilitates and adjusts to the physical limitations he now has. But he IS smart, and is a big-hearted, loving boy, if you can reach him."

"I thought you said no one *could* reach him- that's why you're dumping the boy-mess on me..."

He looks shocked- like, 'how can this man be so callous?' But after a few moments, he sighs. "We aren't 'dumping' him on you. He's just special and from what I've seen, you two share a certain number of qualities and experiences. The reason I said he's big-hearted and loving is because he's very empathetic. He cries if he sees a tiger hurt a gazelle on TV; he even gets emotional about how the Grinch treats his dog in the beginning of that Dr. Seuss cartoon. He loves animals- people, he doesn't. He doesn't trust them- honestly, with his experience, I don't blame him."

I smirk. Well, I'm more of a beast than a human, so maybe I'll have a chance with this loser and satisfy my community service officer.

"I have to tell you one more thing. Mr. Kinney, this young man is gay. If that's something you can't and/or won't tolerate, we can't risk further injury to his psyche...."

I snort. "His being gay is the least of my concerns, Mr.... Mr..."

He sighs. "Mr. Marsh..." he interjects. I have to say that I feel a little bad for him- he's had to tell me his name three times. He just hasn't made enough of an impression on me for me to bother to remember it.

"Mr. Marsh, then. Unless I was interested, I couldn't care less if he's gay."

He looks at me, confused. He has just confirmed what I already knew: he's as thick as a brick. 

"*I'm. Gay.*" I spell out for the guy. 

He gets a surprised look, shuffles some papers around unnecessarily, and clears his throat again. "Oh! Oh, I see! Well..."

Seeing his discomfort morph into near utter paralysis, I scoff. "Look, Mr. Marshmallow--"

"Marsh," he corrects.

"Right. Look, Mr. Marsh, just introduce me to the boy. I don't have any choice but to accept the guy- he's the only one the program is willing to throw at me. So, let me meet him and I'll take him for ice cream or something else 'big brothery'."

He gets a small smile. "Well, he won't be a typical 'little brother', Mr. Kinney... I don't think ice cream will impress him... but I'm pleased you are willing to try with Justin- that's the lad's name, by the way."

I nod, bored, wanting to meet this brain-dead druggie so I can get this shit over with... fuck, running through the front window of that motherfucker's Jeep dealership sure felt worth it at the time- now, I'm not so sure.

"Follow me in your car to the residential center and you can meet him. It's just about 10 blocks away."

 

1.5.6441.28807 


	2. Chapter 2

  
Author's notes:

Keep in mind that Justin's young- he's jaded, but vulnerable and young. Brian's jaded, yes- and not *young* (g). But something keeps him from truly saying 'fuck off' right away (and it's not C.S.) 

Thanks for reading! :) 

* * *

 

Shit. I have to meet another goody two shoes 'big brother' wanna-be-- none have come back to see me more than twice, tops- most leave after one visit. Why can't the 'powers-that-be' just keep me in juvee and then put me in prison when I'm 18? Why do they think they have to save my black, damaged soul? In fact, why do they think I even *have* a soul to save? 

A total of fifteen thirty- or forty-something farts have come to 'save' me, and all have gone. Phew. I do my best to be at my worst behavior when I first meet them- it's not hard. I'm a brain damaged cripple with a huge drug and alcohol problem and 'a chip on my shoulder the size of Texas', as Jeremy says. Jeremy's the officer assigned to me in here. He's an ass.

I sit at the scratched up wood table picking at my fingernails. The room is empty except for the table and a couple decrepit chairs. The walls, the ceiling, the floor---all are a dull grey. It reminds me of the interrogation room at the police station. I am so bored, I start daydreaming just to keep myself from running head-first into the cinderblock wall. I smile a little as I imagine myself undamaged, beautiful (in other words, NOT myself) with a gorgeous, impossibly perfect man. He's putting sun block on my back as the deep blue-green sea laps at the beach lazily. Hmmmmmm.... nothing remotely like that will ever, *ever* happen, I know - but I have my mind to 'play in'...

Just then, the door opens and my dream dissipates. In shuffles Mr.Marsh, as expected. Curious despite myself, I await the next victim of the Justin-Taylor-Hate machine to enter behind him. 

Then, the most sexy, sensual, beautiful, enticing man I have ever seen or even imagined walks in; my breath catches and I feel my palms getting a little moist. Shit. The man walks confidently- even a little cockily- and he has an impatient, pissed look, like this is the last place he wants to be-- same as me. 

I suddenly find I can't swallow- my mouth's gone dry.

"Justin," Mr. Marsh says blandly, his voice reminding me of the tortoise's in the Bugs Bunny version of the 'The Tortoise and the Hare' fable. That, and/or the voice of the teacher dude in 'Ferris Bueller's Day Off'. Either way, he sounds bored and like he's been working for the government WAY too long. "This is Mr. Kinney. He's going to be spending time with you, getting to know you."

Brian looks at me but doesn't offer his hand- so neither do I. Nor do I get up- mostly because those kind of manners are stupid- but also because I'm afraid I'll sway when I stand, or even worse, fall. While I don't have to fake how wobbly I am, I typically use it to my advantage in these situations. It's usually one of the first qualities about me that makes potential 'big brothers' quietly freak out, even if they're already aware of my condition. But, for some reason, I don't want to make this Mr. Kinney go away. This is a first.

After a few moments of the two of us eyeing each other, Mr. Kinney finally says something. "Listen, kid- Justin, whatever- don't expect me to 1, feel sorry for your addicted ass, 2, treat you with any undeserved respect, 3, praise and coo over you just because you successfully open a can of soup in spite of your physical limitations, whatever they specifically are, 4, *like* you, necessarily, or 5, put up with any bullshit because you want to get rid of me. You don't have to drive me away- you only have to tell me and I'm outta here. As much as I need to do this to fulfill my community service, my time is too valuable to waste on some pissant shit who doesn't want me around. 

"Oh. And call me Brian. My father was 'Mr. Kinney'."

By the end of Brian's quiet little 'speech', Mr. Marsh and I are gaping at him, struck by his blunt attitude. Never has a potential 'big brother' been as... up front... as Brian; I grin. He's a royal ASSHOLE. 

Frankly, I like it- I trust him- which scares me; I don't fucking KNOW him. But I get the strong feeling that no matter what, I'll always know where I stand with him. I'd rather deal with a completely honest creep than a super-sweet phony any day. And this Brian guy is a shit, yeah- but there's no real venom there. 

Regaining some of his composure, Mr. Marsh 'ahems'. "Well, uh... I'll just leave you two alone a little while, just so you can get acquainted. You two can go out and have coffee or something if you want..." With that, Mr. Marsh hurries from the room and closes the door. He's never left me alone with any 'mentor wanna-be's' before. Odd. But here I am: I'm alone with Brian. 

I glance at him nervously. Nervous! I'm never nervous with do-gooder losers!

But he's not a do-gooder loser. He very apparently doesn't want to be here- no one does after they've met me, although no one says so. But this guy doesn't seem to care about being here to assuage some inner voice telling him to give something to the community- no, he's here 'cause he has to be and fuck all if he's not totally up front about that. He's real. I don't know quite what I mean by that- but he doesn't fuck around. Plus, shit... HE'S GODDAMMED BEAUTIFUL... "Have a chair, sir..." I hear myself say anxiously. 'Sir'? 'SIR'??? And 'Have a chair'???? What am I, hosting a tea party?

Shit.

Brian looks at me oddly, then shrugs, pulls a chair out and sits. He crosses his arms and stares at me like he either wants to strangle me for 'making' him be here or he has something more to say. "So, what's your problem?" He asks simply.

I gawp at him, speechless. Huh?

After a minute: "Justin?"

"Huh?" I croak.

He smirks. "Look, I know you have speech problems, but you *can* string words together into a sentence, can't you?"

I nod mutely, smiling a little despite myself. 

He chuckles. "Good. Then do you mind answering me? What's your problem? I mean, I know the overall details- but what the fuck's going on with you at the ripe old age of 17 that has you on the juvee critical list? I know there was abuse, I know about the drinking and drugging, I know you suffer physical repercussions because of drinking, yadda yadda- but what makes you such a fucker? The people here are trying to help you, for whatever reason; but you aren't letting them, from what I understand."

I snort. He's nothing if not direct- he's fucking ruder'n hell. "You're awfully eloquent, aren't you? And you sure go out of your way to be polite..."

"Cut the sarcastic shit, Sunshine. I'm not here to be eloquent or polite."

'Sunshine'? I wonder silently to myself. Flustered, I look at initials some shmoe carved into the tabletop. 'BK+JT'. I start to laugh ironically. That could be 'Brian Kinney plus Justin Taylor'! What a coincidence- and an impossibility. A joke. I look up and I see Brian's raised one eyebrow in curiosity as to why the hell I'm laughing. He's not even trying and he's sexier than hell. My cock twitches; it's already hard and I thank God that my erection is hidden by my baggy pants and the table. "Um. Mr.-- er, Brian... I don't want to answer your question, to be honest..." 

He smiles - I think he appreciates my candor, even if it's inadvertent. "Ok," he says softly. "What do you want to do then?"

"What *I* want? Really?'' I ask, biting my lower lip.

"I wouldn't ask otherwise..."

Of course. 

"Can we get out of here?" I ask.

"Sure. Where to?"

I try to focus. "How 'bout Mulligan's Pub?"

"Nice try, Justin..."

I grin. "Ok, then how 'bout we go to Baskins Robbins?"

He looks at me a little surprised. "Ice cream? You want ice cream? Mr. Marshman essentially said you were too old and too sophisticated to be up for ice cream..."

"Um. It's Mr. Marsh," I correct inanely.

"Oh. Right. I always forget that," he mutters absently. 

I clear my throat, thinking. "Brian, did Mr. Marsh really say that about me? That I'm too old and sophisticated to want ice cream?"

"He didn't say so in so many words, but yeah. 

"Anyway, good: ice cream'd be fine by me. Anything with nuts is good in my opinion..." he adds with a sly smile. My gaydar pinged the moment he strode into the room and now it's blaring like a fog horn. Brian gets to his feet, brushing off his tailored slacks; as his long legs straighten, the cheap, old chair he was sitting on scrapes behind him along the dirty floor, sounding awfully ancient and decrepit- it's as if it knows it's not good enough for his ass. I smirk inwardly at myself.

"Yeah," I breathe. Gawd. "Anything with nuts," I agree. Ok, Taylor: get a fucking hold on yourself, you smitten, stale, nelly fag! Usually I'm a smartass- at least that's what everyone barks at me. Right now though, I'm acting like a dolt.

He laughs lightly. "By the way," he adds, walking to the door. "Mr.... Mr...."

"Marsh," I prompt him again.

"Right. Mr. Marsh told me that you're gay," he says bluntly, opening the door for me as I stagger a little towards him and the door. I look at him, shocked and a little embarrassed for some reason.

I recover quickly. "They tell all the potential schmucks I'm gay," I reply.

"Huh. I'm sure. But I've known you're gay from the first second I met you- he didn't have to tell me. I'm telling you that I know just in case you were going to try to hide it. We wouldn't want you embarrassing yourself- more than you already have, I mean."

I feel my cheeks get very warm. Then I feel his hand on the small of my back as he leads me out of the door, closing it behind us. 

"I'm gay, too, by the way- I get the sense you're wondering about that..." he adds glibly, removing his hand from my back having hardly noticed his gesture. I sure noticed it...

Yeah, I was wondering- hoping. "No, I hadn't thought about it."

"Liar," he mutters good-naturedly under his breath. I follow him down the hall and outside; I'm excited-- they haven't let me leave the residential center grounds for two and a half months, and not one guard or nurse questions Brian (I don't think they'd dare) OR me as he blithely leads me out of the building. I notice several of the male nurses stare as we pass; male nurses who I've decided over the time I've been stuck in this hell hole are very likely gay. I feel my chest puff out, in spite of myself; they're all drooling over an oblivious Brian Kinney - and he's with me...!

We step out into the sunlight and I can't help smiling. It feels so good, smells so good on my (too pale) skin. Patches of snow line the sidewalk and I find myself having to nearly skip to keep up beside Brian instead of behind him. Amazingly, I don't stumble or feel off balance for a couple seconds. He looks over as I become even with him, every two of my hurried steps for every one graceful long stride for him. 

"Brian, how the fuck tall are you??"

He chuckles. "I'm about 6'4". You're what? 2'3"?"

That ticks me off. I know I'm short for a guy, but... "No, asshole. I'm 5'8"."

He stops walking abruptly. Uh oh- I've blown it already. But wait- why the fuck do I really care? 

…I don't know...

I look at his face- he doesn't look mad. After a moment of silence, I get restless. "What's wrong, Mr.-- er, Brian? I mean, I'm sorry I called you an asshole... but. Well, I didn't mean it..."

He blinks. "Justin, are you for real? You're acting like some mild-mannered schoolboy from the 1950s. I AM an asshole. I have a thick skin; talk to me like you would talk to anyone. From what little I've heard about you, and from what very little I know, you're behaving like some pod person instead of yourself. Stop trying to be so… fuck…ingratiating or something, and be the shithead you are. I told you: just tell me to fuck off once, and that's all it'll take. I'm not kidding."

Shocked, I again find myself gawking at him. 

"Justin, you're sorta like I was at 17- I just never 'successfully' ran away or drank myself to near death. I can't say I know exactly what you've been through or what you're going through. But I know bullshitting when I see it. And I see it. So quit it."

"Bullshitting? I'm not bullshitting!"

"There you go again..." 

I don't know what to say. I look down at my beat up Nikes.

"This is my Jeep. Get in." I now notice he'd stopped by the black Jeep at the curb. He opens the passenger door and I dutifully get in. "So, where's this Mulligan's Pub you mentioned?" He asks as he slips into the driver's seat.

"Um... are you serious? I mean, I want to go, but I shouldn't... they do random piss and spit tests at the center and all, and I'm sure I'll get tested when we get back..." I stammer. I really do want a shot- or three-- but... "And... and they say if I drink, I could die. Literally," I add. "So, really… I shouldn't…"

He grins at me. "Ding ding! Good answer, even if it is a little equivocating. I'm not being serious, Justin. We're getting ice cream, not booze." He starts the car and we pull into traffic. "Where's Baskins Robbins?"

I smile inside, ridiculously happy that I 'passed' his first test... *ridiculously* is the key word there. The guy who's supposed to be mentoring me just offered to take me to a fucking BAR. "Uh. It's just down the street...

"But Brian, on second thought, can we go somewhere else? Do something else? I haven't been out of the center for months and I really don't want to be anywhere near the place..."

"And who's to blame for that? For you not getting out 'til now?"

"Huh?"

"You've been such a prick to the other 'mentors' who've tried to get to know you, you haven't had a chance to get away with any of them before they stopped coming to see you."

Fucker. "They never offered..." I counter.

"Did you ask them?" 

"No..." I notice that we're passing right by Baskins Robbins. He doesn't even glance at it as he watches the road intently. "Um, where are we going?" Maybe this guy's a mad rapist and is taking me to some secluded place in the woods to have his way with me and then kill me.

"So, it's your fault you haven't gotten out of the center... oh, and you'll see where we're going when we get there."

Fuck, what a DICK. I don't respond but I keep my eyes anxiously ahead, trying to memorize every turn, every store we pass, so I can find my way back if he leaves me in a ditch somewhere. A short while later, we get to a warehouse district- uh oh. He IS going to kill me.

Except the neighborhood looks clean; it looks like it's been gentrified- like a Pittsburgh version of SoHo. The buildings appear to be residential.

We pull up to one of the largest buildings, on the corner of what the sign said is Tremont. I peer at the cross street; Delaware. So, they'll find my raped, bloody body in a large, high-priced loft or apartment at the corner of Tremont and Delaware. Hm. 

"Come on."

I look at him briefly- he's not at all menacing or creepy, but how many victims would have *become* victims if their assailants acted like deranged killers at first? "Where are we?" I ask, kicking myself because my voice is so timid.

"Justin, are you scared of me or something?"

"Where are we?" I ask again, my voice stronger now.

He smirks. "We're at my home, Justin. I can take you back to the center if you'd like..."

"NO!" I say a bit too loudly. "No, thank you..."

"Pfft," he mutters and gets out of the Jeep.

I quickly get out, figuring that at least I'll be in the papers a day or so once they find my body. I'll get my 15 minutes of fame. I won't prove Andy Warhol wrong. But if I'm honest with myself, I find I really do trust this guy as I said before- he's too much of a jerk to be evil. Oddly enough, were he a nice guy, I'd be more worried. 

A bit unsteady, I follow Brian inside and into an old, rickety elevator. I see there are only 4 floors- he pushes the button for the 4th. I try to avert my eyes but I'm so attracted to him, I can't help but steal glances at his face and long, lean body. It's odd, I guess, that I've never really felt truly attracted to another man before now- I've always known I was gay, of course, but I haven't ever seen a man I really wanted; the johns were almost all old, unhappily married losers. And 99 times out of 99 and a half, I was wasted.

I accidentally make eye contact with him once and I'm so embarrassed, I'm tempted to pry open the elevator doors and plummet to my death. 

"Why did you call me 'Sunshine' before?" I ask, both not knowing I was going to speak and not at all thinking that, if I did speak, I'd say something so... idiotic.

He looks at me curiously as the elevator comes to a stop. He doesn't answer, but opens the door and lifts the grate. I follow him to what I assume is his front door- it's the only door on this floor. He unarms and unlocks it, slides it open, and I follow him into a large loft that could easily be pictured as 'home of the year' in Better Homes and Gardens. It's immaculate and sexy, and the furniture and decor is all minimalist but comfortable. It seems to be two big rooms- the bedroom, which is barely visible, is separated from us by frosted glass panels; and we're standing in the living room/dining room/kitchen, which is all divided functionally. Oh- I see what must be a bathroom off to the side, as well. I'm impressed. I guessed this guy was rich by how he was dressed- now I'm sure of it. 

I'm standing in place at the door and am overcome by a now-familiar and dreaded sense of overwhelming vertigo. I waver on my feet, trying desperately to cover it up. I feel like I'm going to fall over though, and I look around helplessly trying to spot a chair or anything to hold onto to attempt to steady myself.

"Justin?" I feel his firm grip on my arm and am grateful...

"I'm okay, really. I just... I have to sit down."

He leads me to the plush, leather sofa and I breathe a sigh of relief as I sink into the cushions. I take a moment to focus since my vision is somewhat darkened and blurry. He brings me a bottle of water and I drink it down all at once. 

"Sorry..." I say sheepishly.

"Sorry's bullshit," he responds, his tone a bit harsh. I'm damaged, I know- it's just, for once, I wish it didn't show so blatantly. As my vision clears a little, I dare to look at him, seated at the opposite end of the sofa. "Better?" He asks softly.

I swallow and nod, biting my lip so I don't apologize again.

"I called you Sunshine because when you smile - and MEAN it-" he adds, "your face lights up." He hands me the rest of his bottle of water and without thanking him, I down it. 

"My face lights up?" I finally ask.

"Justin, will you quit being some dim bulb Clark Kent and be yourself already!?? This pussyfooting around is pissing me off. I hate pussy; I hate pussyfooting. You're more real when you speak what's on your mind, you know... 

"And yes, it lights up."

I shift a little closer to Brian, closing the small gap between us but keeping enough distance so that we aren't touching. "May I tell you something then? May I say something that's on my mind?"

"If you want me to know it, yes. Just don't tell me you like fuzzy bunnies and sparkly unicorns or I'll drive you back to the center so fast your head will spin. More than it does already, I mean, Mr. Brain Damage."

"Brian! That's not nice!"

"Huh. 'Nice'. Neither am I. I thought you got that. Besides, Sunshine, your brain is versatile. All brains are. Over time, new neural paths will take over for the ones that no longer work."

That's the most hopeful thing anyone's said to me since this all went down. Pretty pathetic, eh? This asshole has already, within an hour of knowing me and with no more than 30 or so words, given me a twisted sense of hope. Hope that I actually believe in, anyway. I stare at him a moment and then look at my trembling hands. Why are my hands trembling? "What I was going to tell you," I blurt, "is that I find you beau-- pretty cool. An absolute, utter ass, yes. But you're... you're..." I can't find the right words. Nor can I look him in the eye at the moment. "You're Brian Kinney," I say finally. It's stupid- but somehow, those are the only words that fit.

I chance a glance at him. His face is close. *He's* close. He smells so good, so masculine... 

His expression is softer than I've seen the whole whopping hour I've known him. He smiles when we make eye contact. "I'm 'Brian Kinney', eh? Hm," is all he says. "Pithy."

I nod shyly.

He appraises me a moment and smirks. "Fuckin' hell. Weren't you a hustler, Justin? I'm old enou—you're awfully young, but I *know* you're experienced. So it's odd that you're acting like a shy debutante. Do you have some deluded crush on me?"

Panicked, I slide away from him, shaking my head. "N-no..." 

"You sure, little girl?"

"Fuck you!" I spit. "I'm sure! Fuck. I shouldn't have said anything... never mind!"

He quirks a lopsided grin. "It's okay, Sunshine. It's actually flattering to have a hot 17-year-old brain-damaged guy attracted to me--"

"I'm not attracted to you!" I insist, hating how unconvincing I sound. "And stop saying I'm brain-damaged!" I huff.

"Well, you are, aren't you?"

I don't respond. He's such a jerk. "I can still *think*, you creep!" I say angrily. Wait, did he call me 'hot'?

"Yes, you can think. You're lucky..."

I look at him fully- he's taunting me, but there's nothing in his tone or expression that tells me that he's being malicious or pitying me. He's just saying it like it is- and he's being slightly playful. "I know I'm lucky," I say quietly.

I shift back to my spot from a moment ago; that spot close to him. I look into his eyes- they're green and hazel and gold and chocolate brown… wow. And there's definite humor glinting in them. I lean towards him; WHAT AM I DOING?

He seems to think the same thing because suddenly he's standing. "You, uh, finished off my water. I'm getting another- you want one?" He sounds a little flustered.

"N-no, thanks."

He nods and walks purposefully to the refrigerator. I promptly chastise myself. What was I doing? Did I really expect to kiss him? Did I really think he'd kiss *me back*? Not only is he my 'mentor' and not 'available' for that reason, but he's gorgeous and so out of my league, it's laughable!! I'm an alcoholic ex-hustling, brain-damaged freak!

When he returns with a bottle of water, he sits in the designer easy chair across from me. I can't help but ironically chuckle a little. "I know 'sorry's bullshit', but I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking."

He puts his water bottle on the coffee table (on a coaster on the coffee table, to be accurate), and he chuckles a bit himself. "S'okay, Justin. It's just... nothing like that can happen, alright?"

Inside, I feel like weeping even though I know it's true. I keep up a chipper front though. "I know. It was stupid."

"I wouldn't say 'stupid', Sunshine. I'd say 'inappropriate'."

Hmmm. Something in that statement sounds a little hopeful to me. But: "Why?" I ask before thinking. "Because I used to be a hustler? Because I'm trying to be in recovery? Because I'm damaged goods all around??" I hiss. "Why?"

He looks put off and a little surprised. "'Why'? WHY? I could care less if you were a hustler- in fact, I find that hard to believe since you act like a fucking virginal hermit! I also could care less about you're 'recovery' bullshit- just don't use when you're with me! And you aren't 'damaged goods', for Christ's sake! You're damaged, for lack of a better word, but you aren't some fucking commodity to be returned for being defective, you shit—although, I'm starting to question that! 'Why' is because I'm *supposed* to be like a big brother to you! And not the incestuous kind!"

"You're only doing this 'big brother' thing for your community service, Brian!" I say. 

"And *you're* only doing this because the center is 'making' you! Regardless of *why* we're here, we are, and we have to follow SOME rules! All I need is for you to tell some freak at the center I molested you and get my ass thrown in jail! You. Are. Not. Worth. It."

Hey! "I wouldn't—" but I shut up. The look on his face tells me to simply s*h*u*t u*p.

 


	3. Chapter 3

  
Author's notes:

Brian's take- Justin's bind... I don't have a "beta", so I don't know how this is, really. And sorry- it's kind of a looong chapter. I love feedback- you've all been so positive so far- Thanks! :) 

* * *

Fuck, this kid will be the end of me. Coming onto me?! He has balls though, I'll give him that. I was beginning to wonder, with all his pseudo-good manners and shyness. We're sitting in my living room with 'Stratego' set up between us, believe it or not. We're both pretending to be absorbed in the game, but I'm pretty sure he's still thinking about trying to kiss me. *I* am, dammit- Justin is beautiful. 

He kills one of my scouts; he looks up at me with a mischievous smile. I'm not moved. "You lose," I bite out as I capture his flag.

"Hey! How'd you know it was there?"

"I'm magic," I say smugly and glance at my watch. "I'm taking you back to the center. It's 6:00 already. 4 games is enough."

I swear he pouts a split second before he stands. He sways a little, which makes me both angry at him and… ache for him. I choose to focus on the anger part. It's his fault he's so sick, but... but 'there but for the grace of God, go I', as Joanie would say. 

I drive him home. We're quiet. I decide I'm okay with the boy- or, more accurately, the man. He's intelligent, and while he's said he behaves more drunk now than he ever did when he actually was, I can see the man beneath the lack of balance and the slightly slurred speech. Mr. Marsh (yes, I remember his name now) was right: Justin does have a big heart. It's just been stomped on by so many people, he doesn't trust anyone easily, but hell, at least he's kept his heart intact. Me, I just got rid of mine. I was told that I was worthless and should never have been born so often that I finally got to the point that it was either keep getting hurt or stop feeling altogether. And the latter... well, to put it rather stupidly: the latter hurt less. That's the difference between Justin and I. He's braver than me, in a way.

I drop him off and instead of going to Woody's which is my first inclination, I go home. I don't drink. I don't get high. I fucking write a little, watch TV and go to bed.

I want to see a little of what Justin's going through.

===XXXX 

It's a week after I met Justin for the first and only time. I grudgingly admit to myself that I've been reluctant to go back to the center; he struck a chord in me, the fucker. I genuinely *like* him, and I don't really *like* anyone. At least, not like this. It's just that he has so much potential he doesn't see. I don't pity him, not at all. Fuck knows why I want to help him. 

Justin doesn't need my help though. I think he needs himself- to find himself. He trusts me to help him with that though we talked about nothing of the kind. That tells me that frankly, he's kinda stupid, people-wise. I mean, within minutes of being with him I sensed he trusted me; and trusting people is stupid. *I* don't do it. And while he *can* trust me, I don't get why of all the men who've volunteered to be his mentor, I immediately earned that 'honor'. But I suppose I did. He seems to actually like me. Not my money, not my brain, not my skills in advertising. I dare to admit that I think most if not all my (few REAL) friends like *me*- but they also like the money, smarts and skills that come with the package. Justin could care less what I make, how high my IQ is, or what I do for a living... he doesn't even know any of that stuff and he still seems to like my company. He even brushes off my brusqueness (Lindsay's word) with hardly a ruffled feather- in fact, he calls me on it. The honesty that pisses so many people in my life off seems to be golden to him; that's new. Most people don't want the hard truth- or the hard truth as I see it. Which is, of course, The Hard Truth.

I'm in the Jeep parked outside the center and I've been here 5 minutes debating whether I should go in- whether I should blow it off, blow him off and find a nursing home or something to fulfill my community service. 

Suddenly I find myself at the door to the center and shake my head. How'd I end up here without even noticing getting out of the car and walking to the front step? I close my eyes, clench my jaw, open the door and walk in. I sign in at the desk and a guard leads me to that same small, dank room I went to first when I met Justin. I sit and wait. Sunshine's not expecting me. Well, not anymore. Mr. Marsh called last Wednesday to tell me how much Justin seemed to like me, that he wanted to see me again, that he was disappointed I missed our scheduled time last Tuesday... REALLY disappointed... 

I'd ignored the call completely. And I'd done the same to Justin.

I wait a few minutes in the disgusting little room and I decide to split and forget the whole thing- but then the door opens.

"I'm not expecting any visitors! Get your hands off me! I hate this room! If it's Mr. Marsh, tell the asshole to talk to Jeremy!" I hear Justin yelling at the guard who's hustling the kid into the room. Justin's back is to me and he finally wrenches his arm away from the guard. "Fucker!!" He yells, watching as the guard emotionlessly leaves without a word, closing the door behind him. Justin spins around to face me, staggering a little. "Look, you old fart, I don't need to see y--" he stops short when he sees it's me. "Brian?"

"Brilliant observation..."

"You came back? To see me?" He stammers. He sounds utterly shocked. "To do what? Say good bye to the hopeless twink?" He adds snidely.

I snort. "Yes, I came to see you, but not to say good bye. I'd just blow you off if I didn't want to see you again. I wouldn't bother to say good bye."

"But I thought you did blow me off! You were scheduled to come the day after we saw each other last week." He hesitates then clears his throat. "Well, whatever! I'm fucking blowing YOU off, you old codger! Go home- I never wanted to see you again after you dropped me off last week, and right now, I REALLY don't want to see you! Asshole!"

Hm. I don't move except to cross my arms and cock an eyebrow at him.

He holds my stare a few moments and then looks at his fingers, frustrated. His brows knit. "I don't understand."

"Justin, let's just say I *almost* blew you off..."

He sways where he stands and I immediately rise to steady him, but he stumbles and falls with a pissed off 'dammit!'

I stay where I am as he tries to get up; he can't get his equilibrium, but I get the sense that he'd rather I didn't help him stand. Finally, he's up. I keep my face unconcerned, even though his imbalance cuts me. "You're fall-down happy to see me, huh?" I say flippantly. He grimaces slightly, still unsteady; but there's a glimmer of relief in his expression- relief I didn't freak out, I think.

"Shit," he mutters, shaken. "Y'know? They keep trying to give me a walker for fuck's sake; I hope the guard wasn't watching through the two-way mirror a second ago. If he was, I won't have a choice. A walker! At 17! I already have to sit down when I shower! It's like I'm 99 years old! I can't even get the dirt off me!!" He seethes. "I can't stand this- and I'll be like this the rest of my miserable life! It'll be a short one, I'll make sure of that!" He's talking to himself at the moment- I don't think he remembers I'm even here, although his hazy focus is on me. He told me while we were playing Stratego last week that his vision gets blurred and 'dark' (as he put it) when he gets a really bad wave of vertigo, so even though it seems like he's looking at me, I don't think he really sees me.

"Justin."

His eyes get clearer and I shove a chair near him. He grabs the back and steadies himself. "Brian?"

"Yeah," I say warily.

"Hey." He acts like he hasn't seen me today at all. Even his hostility seems to have evaporated completely.

"Hey yourself. Justin, sit down."

He does. He leans forward and puts his head in his hands. I scoot a chair in front of him and sit down to face him; I take his hands from his face and hold them. When he looks up, his eyes look rheumy and his lower lip is trembling. "Sorry," he mumbles sadly.

Instead of snarking at him how 'sorry is bullshit': "There's nothing to be sorry about. Unless you're purposefully ripping my Armani suit, denting my Jeep or producing sub-par work product, I'm actually pretty tolerant."

He smiles slightly, slowly regaining his concentration.

"Justin- what do you mean when you say that you're gonna make sure you have a short life?" I whisper. Normally, I'd ignore an inadvertent admission- by anyone. But not if it's a veiled suicidal one.

"What?" He asks, a little surprised.

"What you just said... that you're life will be a short one- that you're going to make sure of it...?"

"I didn't say that!"

I nod at him... "Yes, you did. That you're gonna make sure you have a 'short life' sounds a lot like you've considered- or are truly considering- suicide." I keep whispering, so any guard or nurse who may be trying to listen in can't hear me. "That's something I can't ignore."

He stays quiet. Somber and quiet. His silence speaks volumes.

"Sunshine, you'd really piss me off if you did something to yourself, you know..."

"Yeah, why should I care if I piss you off?" Ah. *There's* the hostility.

"Because *I* do, you twat. I care if you piss me off - I don't like people who piss me off."

"Ha! Who cares if the oh-so-irresistible Brian Fucking Kinney is pissed off!!? You think I give a rat's ass? You think I give a SHIT if you like ME? That is a JOKE! 

"I'm already dead, Mr. Kinney! I drank myself virtually *dead*! I'm brain dead, hopelessly addicted and almost literally went to my grave with pancreatitus at 17! My parents beat me, my first grade teacher raped me, my pastor raped me, my PIMP raped me- I don't fucking care anymore! You liking me is the *least* of my concerns!"

Oddly, I'm surprised by this frank outburst; I suck in a breath. What the fuck do I say to that? I exhale slowly and hold his hands a little tighter. Why I don't just say 'fuck you' and leave, I'm not sure. Except I know he's lying. He cares. Maybe not about me or if I 'like' him but, deep down, he does care about himself. And he's struggling like a madman over it. Idiot. "Justin, you're wallowing in self-pity and that's goddamned pathetic. If you do something drastic to yourself, you're not just gonna piss me off, you're letting the bad shit win. You're… you're better than that." What am I saying to this little freak? Some tinny, annoying, small voice in the way back of my mind is telling me that I'm not really- not *really*- talking to him. Or at least, not only to him. And there are only two of us in the room.

"Pfft. How the fuck do you know?"

He's right. Kind of. How do I know? Because I do. "Because I do. Justin, you don't know this about me, but I'm an asshole when--"

"You're kidding, right? I do TOO know that about you!"

I poke my tongue into the hollow of my cheek, getting annoyed. If I didn't know better, I'd think the guy was on something. "Okay, so you know that I'm an asshole, but that's not all I was going to say. I'm an asshole especially when I first get to know someone- yes, before you say something obnoxious, I know you know that too... but the few friends I have are close. They're cretins but they're okay, really. I don't suffer fools and I don't warm up to people easily- if at all. With you, you've kind of slid under the wire... but one of the reasons I put off coming to see you till now is because I didn't want to deal with this needy, weak, woe-is-me shit." 

Justin practically snarls at me when I say that. "FUCK YOU! Get out of here! Get out now!"

I ignore him. "Yet," I continue quietly, "for some twisted reason, I came anyway."

"God! You blow me off for a whole week, dance in here and expect me to fucking pretend it doesn't matter you didn't show, you get all preachy-ish about not feeling sorry for myself and *then* call me weak and needy? Oh great god Kinney, I grovel at your Prada's; I am not worthy- your wisdom is so vast and all-seeing, my feeble brain cannot grasp its delicate complexity," he sneers. "Fuckin' get bent and get lost, old man!" He adds. Nice touch.

Okay. Okay, this bites. I don't have to take this crap- I don't have to take ANY crap. I get up to leave and pause, for some reason still holding his hands tight in mine. I think a moment, standing here; I sure as hell don't need this aggravation, he says he doesn't want me here and I don't really want to be here… why do I feel a thin strand of *something* holding me back from marching out the door without a second glance? Pfft, fuck it. I drop his hands; I'm outta here. 

Having made the decision to leave, suddenly I can't get out of here fast enough. I stride towards the door and am startled by a clumsily-thrust arm that reaches out to stop me. "Wait." His depth perception is fucked and his grab for my arm fails at first but I stop anyway. I stop, yes- but that's all. I have a sneaking feeling that I'm being childish, but I don't move at all- not to look at him, not to pull my arm away, nothing. I'm fucking pissed.

Finally, "What, Justin? You told me to go and as I promised, you only have to tell me once. I'm going. I'm not a bleeding heart masochist whose gonna stick it out come hell or high water for a 17-year-old crippled 'victim' who feels sorry for himself because Mommy and Daddy and life have treated him like dirt. I told you: for some twisted reason, I did come back here today. But you know the saying: fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. I'm no fool. Toodles, Sunshine. Have a nice day." I move on towards the door. 

"Fuck you," I hear behind me as I open the door. Original. Despite myself, I close the door behind me a little more forcefully than necessary- but I'm angry. I'm about 4 hurried strides to the exit when I hear, "Stop!" 

Fuck. 

I do, and turn around. The door opens and Justin stands there gripping the doorknob for balance looking royally ticked off, frustrated… and a little sad; a guard comes up, perplexed and annoyed.

"You have 10 more minutes, Mr. Taylor!"

I snort. "Fuck off."

The guard appraises me; I glare at him. He backs off and returns to his little booth or whatever it is without a word.

We stand there facing each other a full 5 of those 10 minutes. Strangely, I find myself realizing how he must be feeling in this situation: angry because he's proud but scared and honestly, pretty fucking helpless. He's mad as hell at me right now but maybe he doesn't want me to go- and as much as I've told him to get over himself and be the blunt motherfucker he truly is, I see now that he may feel that if he is, I'll split. I break our stare-down and look at his hand on the doorknob, seeing how tightly he's holding it to keep himself steady so he doesn't lose face and seem weak by swaying in place. "Justin, just for one second, put aside your rage at me and your pride- I won't hold it against you," I add quickly. "Do you really want me to go?" Quiet. I ask quietly. "I will. But I'll stay too- if you want me to." I look back up to his eyes which haven't wavered.

He regards me skeptically, seeming to reevaluate whether he should trust me or not. Who knows what's going on in that blond-haired, beautiful, damaged head. "No," he answers finally.

No what? No what? Don't go or don't stay?

"I need to sit down," he says flatly and turns, stumbling a bit as he disappears back into the disgusting little room. Jesus. I realize I'm not mad anymore. But I'm something- emotions are pretty alien to me, so I don't know what that 'something' is. It's there, though, and I choose to take his answer as 'don't go'. I follow him into the room to find him sitting across from the chair I'd vacated. I go sit down and for SOME reason, I take his hands into mine again.

It's well past the remaining 10 minutes Justin had left for our visit but no one comes in for him. His eyes are totally clear now; he focuses on me intently. He stares with an incredulous expression on his face- well, it's more pissed. Anyone else would probably call it pissed. But there's more to it than just that. He looks down at our hands and back up at my face, taking a deep, overly dramatic breath. I don't think he's mad anymore either. I think we're both... exhausted. "Soooo- you'll kill me?" He asks after a few moments.

Huh? "If you kill yourself?" I grin, a little relieved for whatever reason. "Nah- that'd be overdoing it. I'd just spit on your grave."

Suddenly he smiles and I have to admit, my denied inner lesbian gets warm all over. "Mmmm. Kinney spit..." he chuckles.

"Oooookay. Stop with the passes and sexual innuendo, Sunshine. I may be your 'big brother', but I'm also a man."

He finally relaxes completely after our little PMS moment, but he looks at me oddly. "What do you mean?"

So maybe this kid's not as smart as I thought. "Um, that brain-damage must've done a real number on you if you don't understand me..."

"Huh?"

Oh, lord. "Duh! I'm only human! I'm a sexual person, idiot! In fact, most consider me an over-sexed pervert! So lay off!"

"…Do you mean you're honestly attracted to me?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake. No, okay? I'm now seeing a stupid side to you I haven't seen before. I'm glad you showed it to me. It's a real turn-off."

"You *are* attracted to me! Ha! I knew it! You're…" He doesn't finish. Thank fuck. He's grinning and practically bouncing in his chair. 

"Shut the fuck up and let's get out of here."

"Can we go back to your loft?" 

"Whatever." I stand and pull him up with me, still holding his hands. We leave; I notice several men and a lot of women staring as we leave. "What the fuck is everyone looking at?" I ask him under my breath.

"You don't know? It was the same last week," he whispers back. I frown at him. "You really don't? Shit. Brian, they're staring at you."

Fuck, these people need to get a life. I'm not unused to being stared at- but here? I look around more closely to find they're gawking at US- not just me. Were this the real world of Brian Kinney and not Brian Kinney Lite, I'd give Justin a sloppy, I-wanna-fuck-you kiss right here- but no. I'm Big Brother Kinney. Justin's Off Limits.

We drive to the loft without much talking, but Justin seems happy and is almost vibrating in his seat. When we get in the loft, I'm immediately attacked. He pounces on my back and holds on, laughing. Staggering under the weight of his bubble butt, hell must freeze over because I find myself laughing too and I collapse on the sofa with him clinging to me. Fuck all. This isn't happening. This isn't me. He starts tickling me- one thing I normally can't stand, but… 

"Twat!" I wrangle around so we're roughhousing face to face. We're both laughing like 4 year old schoolgirls at a slumber party... it's retarded. Then he gets completely serious. That makes me quit acting like an idiot- and suddenly he's kissing me, pressing against me, his erection digging into my thigh. He tastes like mint and honey and my eyes slide shut. In the back of my mind, I know this is stupid, wrong- and definitely corny... but really, his kissing me feels… well…. 

The kiss is one of the most passionate I've experienced in my life, which is saying a lot. When our lips part I open my eyes a little. Justin's eyes are half-lidded and he's watching me, breathing erratically and looking slightly delirious. "Brian...." he breathes.

Without letting myself consider what's happening, I lean up and kiss him again; he rubs against me. I can feel the hot breath from his nose on my cheek. He shifts slightly and reaches his hand down for my cock and caresses it through my pants with his slim fingers. I moan. Fucking 'Big Brother Kinney,' ’Big Brother Kinney,' 'Big Brother Kinney' echoes in the back of my head; argh. I force myself to pull back. "Justin...!"

"Shhhhh..." he whispers. "Don't... don't stop... fuck me, Brian. I want you. I want to feel. I want to feel you..."

I start to really allow myself to think this all through and as right as this feels, this is wrong. This is a violation of some kind, and especially given what just went down at the center, this has to stop. How many people has he trusted enough to fuck him, people who then turned on him and ended up fucking him over instead? I don't plan to fuck him over, but I can't fuck him either. This is it: Brian Kinney, the pod person. Never before has something like this happened- never before have I been in this situation, nor have I been with someone like Justin, someone in Justin's situation. "Justin, no. We have to stop... get off me..."

"Brian!" He sounds miffed and confused.

Pfft! "I can't believe this…" I mutter angrily to myself, shifting away slightly. "Justin, this just... this just can't happen." I extricate myself from the blond completely and try to move over to the chair across the way as gracefully as I can. Which isn't very, what with a raging hard-on and only one shoe.

Justin doesn't say anything but he blushes - not a 'cute' oops blush. An 'I'm-so-embarrassed-I-want-to-die' blush. "After all this shit..." he mutters. 

"..."

He gets up to move away and staggers a little before losing all balance and falling forward onto my lap. "Sorr- sorry!" He says after a moment, a little dazed. "I mean..."

"Hush. And quit with the stupid 'sorry's. You're still acting like a genteel beauty contestant. Why, 'after all this shit', as you put it? I'm still here…" I pull him fully onto my lap and he sits unsteadily on my knee, the muscles in his ass and legs working to try to balance himself. I hold his thighs for support and he grips my arms. 

He doesn't answer. "Thanks," he says simply; I'm surprised to see tears wet his lashes. "I'm a fucking emotional basket case," he grumbles. His grasp gets tighter on my arms. "Shit... I'm getting one..." he whispers. 

"What?"

Suddenly he's convulsing, his eyelids flutter and his eyeballs roll back. Fuck! What the fuck!?

What the hell do I DO?

Panicked, I quickly stand and carry his jerking body to the bedroom and lay him down. I put a thin sock in his mouth so he doesn't bite off his tongue and swallow it- taking extreme care he doesn't bite off my *finger* and swallow it. His mouth is frothing slightly. Shit! I hold his head in my lap and try not to completely lose it as he goes rigid and then limp over and over. "Justin...Justin..." I say quietly. "Sunshine!" Damn this kid! I feel like some helpless child! "Sunshine, wake up!" I decide if we don't end up in the emergency room tonight, Justin's staying overnight here. "Sunshine!"

As abruptly as the seizure came on, it's over. Justin's suddenly as loose as a rag and in a complete daze, but his eyes are no longer rolled back and his convulsions have stopped. I cradle his head in my lap and gently remove the sock from his mouth, wiping the slight traces of froth from his lips. He looks at me dreamily, hazily. "Brian, is that you?" He finally chokes out. I nod, trying to smile, my vision blurring a little. "What happened? Brian, are you crying?" He reaches out a clumsy hand and touches my face. "Your cheeks are wet... what's wrong? What did I do wrong?" He's really out of it.

"I'm not crying, brat. You didn't do anything wrong. You had a seizure. You're in my loft; you're safe. You're a bit dazed right now, but I'm here and neither of us is going anywhere, okay? Just relax." Fuck, I sound like some nurse in a soap opera. "Asshole," I add for good measure.

He takes a deep breath and smiles, then frowns. "A seizure... wait a minute- did you say I had a seizure? I've never had a seizure in front of somebody! I'm so sorry. I'm really sorry."

He's got to be joking. "For the fucking LAST time: sorry's bullshit!! But Justin, does this mean the center doesn't know about the seizures either? *No* one knows? How long have you had them?"

He shakes his head groggily. "No, no one knows. No one – well, except you now. They started about 3 months ago, I guess. One morning, I woke up on the floor with 30 minutes of my life unaccounted for. Then it started happening kinda often- still does... it's so scary..." 

Huh. Understatement. "Yeah, well... whatever. But you should tell your doc about this. Seizures can be dangerous- there are meds to help."

A little more aware of himself now, he turns slightly and buries his face in my lap. I hold and rock him gently. Fuck. Cocky, obnoxious, crazy little shit or not, no one should have to suffer like this. No one- whether they drank, drugged, were beaten, were born with a brain issue- NO one... after several minutes of silence, the only sounds being his broken sobs, he finally speaks. "At least I didn't pee on your duvet," he jokes lamely.

I grimace. "Be grateful for that, twat." I reach over and turn on the blue neon lights over the bed. The loft is darkening as night falls and the blue lights are soft, soothing.

"Um... I know I've freaked you out--"

"I can take it," I interrupt. "Justin, you're spending the night here. When I take you back to the center tomorrow, I'll explain what kept you here and what happened, and if you don't talk to your doctor about the seizures, I will."

He turns again and regards me from my lap with red eyes. "I can spend the night?" 

"Here or in the ER. You have no choice but those two."

"I definitely choose here! And I'll tell Dr. Billings about the seizures..." he says. "Uh…?"

I sigh. "What now, you high-maintenance ass?" 

He chuckles. "Brian, if I control my hands, may I sleep next to you? For some reason, even though you're a royally obnoxious, rude, arrogant prick… I feel safe with you..." 

I smile inside but keep my face even. I lean down to softly brush his lips with my own. "Yeah. You can sleep next to me. Just don't tell *anyone* on Liberty Avenue. I fuck a lot of men, but I don't sleep with them... ever... I don't want to."

"I'm special?"

Yeah, fucker. "You're especially persistent and a total pain in the ass, let's put it that way. Using seizures to make me bend my rules and all."

He smiles. "Hmmmmm," he reaches his hand up to play with my hair affectionately. 

"Quit acting like a wanna-be diva in a B movie, Taylor."

He ignores me. Shocking. 

"Your hair's so soft, Brian. Why aren't you bald like so many 33 year olds?"

I wince inwardly, though part of me is fascinated that he thinks 'so many 33 year olds' are bald. "Well, I'm not like 'so many' 33 year olds, I suppose."

"Thank God," he whispers. "You aren't like 'so many' *any*things, Brian."

Have we noticed a pattern here? Justin's a fire-breathing dragon one minute, a damsel in distress the next, and a cornball maven the NEXT. "Don't get all soppy on me, Justin. I've crossed the line and am deep into CreepySoftieLand already and I hate it. You may be sick and delirious- but I won't tolerate soppy."

He snickers and closes his eyes. 

"And," I add quietly. "I'm 38..."

Already on the way to sleep, he doesn't hear me. Just as well. But he has a small smile on his face like he has a secret. I lay back keeping his head on my lap, and am soon asleep myself.

 


	4. Chapter 4

  
Author's notes: Ups. Downs. Revelations. I really hope you enjoy- thank you so much for the reviews!   


* * *

 

I wake up and I smell Brian... Huh. I wonder where the hell I am, what the hell happened to me and why the fuck I have a headache like someone drilled a hole in my brain. And, of course, why I'm dreaming of Brian, dreaming of his scent. Vague images of kissing him play before my eyes, tactile memories come up of fingering Brian's face and feeling tears... *shit!!* I had a seizure! I realize my head is resting in Brian's lap. I'm on his bed. 

Brian. Brian's lap. Brian's bed. 

Brian.

He helped me during my convulsions -- he didn't toss me into the hallway and leave me there seizing. In fact, he insisted I stay over so I wouldn't be alone. Well, I'm reading a little into his motives but honestly, what other reason could there be? He said it was either stay here with him or go spend the night in the ER. The easiest choice in the fucking world.

I look up and see Brian on his back, his legs crossed under my head- he must've been exhausted to fall asleep like this. All I can really see from his lap is his lean belly and the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes deeply. He's still in his suit. It's all mussed and wrinkled. I notice now that his hands are gently cradling my head in his lap.

My slight movement wakes him and his head bolts upright as he checks on me groggily- worriedly.

"I'm not having a seizure, Brian," I say softly. "Good morning..."

"Hmm." He relaxes. "Mornin'," he mumbles hoarsely. "Sleep okay?"

I smile. "Better than I have in a very long time. Not because I'm in a comfortable position, though. My right arm's asleep."

He shifts and I pull my numb arm from under his leg- how it ended up there, I haven't a clue. "So you slept good though? I didn't feel you move at all during the night... I didn't feel another seizure..."

"Hm. I think I had dreams about you."

He snorts. "Did not! Fuck, I've known you two days total- you're doomed if I've already invaded your psyche…"

Ha. "Not doomed at ALL," I say quietly.

"Oh, shut up," he snaps, lifting my head from his lap and sitting up rather stiffly.

"I mean it." I sit up too, trying to ignore my wooziness. I scoot up so I'm even with Brian's head; I gently wrap my arms around his torso and lean my head on his shoulder. "It's only 4:30- it's not even sunrise yet. Do you want to sleep a little longer? I can go sleep on the sofa. I... well, since being off the streets and being at the center, I don't sleep well in my clothes- obviously unless I pass out exhausted or drunk or both. But sleeping in my clothes... it brings up too much shit. I like to sleep nude..." I'm not sure how I expected to not have this problem come up last night when I asked if I could sleep next to him. It just didn't occur to me.

He shrugs. "I haven't had to sleep in my clothes on the streets and I still have to sleep nude to be comfortable. I guess for both of us, last night was the exception... " Shit- yesterday and last night were exceptions all around- what high drama. He eyes me warily. "There are extra blankets in the closet. You sure the sofa's okay?"

No. It's not. Not at all. "Sure." Reluctantly, tiredly, I get up from the bed, get some blankets and make my way to the sofa, trying to hide how unsteady my legs feel. It's like they're made of wood and I'm walking with no knees; yet I feel like if my knees bend, they'll buckle completely. I have to sit to undress myself so I don't crumple into a heap on the floor. I hate this. I hate this so much...

I don't really make up the sofa. I just lay down and curl up under a blanket. I close my eyes and let my imagination go... I love the debonair, handsome playboy I am in my mind, in my waking dreams. Mmmmmm: I'm in the city, walking out of a bar-- no, it can't be a bar anymore. I grin; okay: I walk out of a Baskins Robbins and smack dab into...

Brian! Brian *has* invaded my psyche! 

I find myself smiling a little as I doze, letting go and allowing my imagination to roam, even with Brian in it... forbidden, beautiful Brian…

The top scoop of my hunky-dream-self's double dip cone falls onto Brian's chest, staining his suit. "Fucker! This is Cavalli!" He yells. Heh- I guess that even in my dreams Brian's a bastard.

"Sorry!" Handsome-fantasy-me says.

"Sorry's bullsh..." his voice trails off when he looks up from the stain and sees me; he's smitten. 

"I'll pay for the dry cleaning," hot little ol' me offers coyly. "I really am sorry."

I must fall totally asleep at this point in my little fantasy because next time I open my eyes, it's 5:30. I only slept an hour! Not allowing myself to think about it, I tiptoe up the stairs to the bedroom trying as hard as I can not to wobble-- or at least not to wobble and hit anything that would make noise. Brian's asleep, his features serene in the soft blue neon lights. He sleeps on his side facing me; his toned arm lightly holds the blankets over his presumably nude body. Carefully, I lift up the covers on the empty side of the bed but before I can climb in, Brian opens one eye and raises his brow at me standing there raising the covers, naked. 

Expecting to be yelled at, kicked out- anything- I shrink back. "I... I...I'm..."

"Shhhh..." he says wearily. He gently draws back the covers for me completely, basically inviting me into the bed. I get in without another word. 

He closes his eyes after I settle. After a moment I snuggle a little bit closer to him; I reach out and caress his side savoring the feel of his smooth warm skin. 

He opens one eye again.

"I'm just touching you. I promise it won't go any farther... " I say meekly. Meekly. Huh. He's right- I'm a twat; or I'm acting like one. It's like the air around Brian has some kind of personality-altering, brain-numbing effect on me. Argh.

He keeps his one eye open a few moments, sighs, and closes it again. I scoot just a little closer, close my eyes and let my fingers softly trace along his chest. It's comforting. I soon find myself drifting off.

\-------------------------------------

I wake up at around 10AM not feeling terribly rested; I see a peaceful, cherubic, rosy face resting next to me. 

Justin. Ugh.

I remember now that he came to my bed (stark naked) hours ago. Fucker. He stroked my chest and sides, but it wasn't sexual. I think- I *think*- he was seeking comfort. 

His eyes slowly open, a dark indigo blue in the morning light. He smiles. "Brian..."

"Uh huh. Feel okay?"

He nods and stretches. I try not to stare at his alabaster skin as his arms raise over his head and go taut. He's surprisingly toned; he wears such baggy clothes, I didn't know. He yawns and relaxes out of the stretch. His smile widens and he moves so our bodies are pressed softly against each other. Fuck. His body... it fits mine or something. Shit- I sound downright tacky. Justin suddenly shudders. "Justin?" I say cautiously, hating it that I'm somewhat alarmed.

His smile weakens. "I'm fine," he says. I'm thoroughly unconvinced. "I just need a minute or two to wake up..."

I don't say anything more about it. "Sunshine, we need to at least call the center..." I swing my legs over the side of the bed and get up and for maybe the first time in my adult life, I realize I'm self-conscious standing here naked with my back to someone. I used to be traumatized if anyone saw me naked because of all the bruises and welts on my body. My self-consciousness started when I was about 14, when Mikey saw me naked for the first time. He walked in on me in the bathroom at his mom's house- I'd slept over after one of Jack's drunken beatings and was going to take a shower to try to soothe my aching muscles and bone deep bruises. I can still hear his gasp and choked sobs like it happened a minute ago. He ran from the bathroom with his hand over his mouth, crying like he'd just seen his dog run over. Immediately when it happened I hadn't understood- I was so used to my body being battered and bloody and/or bruised that it was normal to me. Sure, I knew not to let my injuries show, I knew to wear long pants and long sleeved shirts... but Mikey's reaction surprised me. Then I glimpsed in the bathroom mirror and saw myself through his eyes. Myriad deep purple and blue bruises covered my body. I'd seen Mikey naked which, even to me was unremarkable- except for the fact that his skin was totally unmarred. He was pure white, evenly colored; there were no scars, scabs, bruises, welts, round little cigarette burns, cuts—there was nothing but white skin. 

For years since that day in the bathroom I was terrified to undress around anyone until I finally developed fully and became strong enough that Jack started to think twice about laying into me. 

Boy, how times have changed- now well more than half of Pittsburgh's male population and a healthy number of males from other towns, cities, states and countries have seen me naked. And from what I hear and understand, every single one of these men has appreciated it. I haven't been at all shy about my nude body.

Till right now. 

But the 'shyness' I feel this time isn't rooted in shame or embarrassment; it's rooted in the fact I know Justin wants me. 'Duh', you may say-- all the other men want me, too. But Justin's different. Somehow.

"Brian...?" Justin whispers behind me on the bed. "Are you okay?" 

I realize that for as self-conscious as I am right now, I've stood here naked in full view for a relatively long time. I clear my throat. "Yeah... I'm fine..." I quickly and clumsily pull on some sweats and hurry from the room to get my cell from the kitchen island. I'm fucking grateful to be away from Justin's scrutiny.

I call the center and tell the receptionist the story of last night and why we didn't make it back- and she tells me that she'd be surprised if Justin and I *did* get back to the center last night- or this morning OR the rest of the week, in fact.

"What the fuck are you talking about? I'll drive him over there in a half hour!"

"Mr. Kinney," she answers wearily. "You haven't looked out a window or turned on the TV recently, have you?"

I hold the phone away from my ear and stare at the receiver dumbly. What??? I glance over to the windows and then I get it. "Oh..."

"Yeah, 'oh'," she snarks at me. Normally I'd tell her to fuck off and ask for her supervisor but I get the impression she's stuck at the center and will be for a loooong time. "14 inches so far," she tells me. "Happy holidays," she adds sarcastically and hangs up. I go to one of the windows and rest my hand on the cold glass pane. I can't see anything but white, the snow is falling so thickly. I look at the enormous drifts that have blown up the sides of the windows; they're actually taller than the glass.

I jump when I feel a soft hand on my shoulder. "Wow..." I hear quietly behind me.

"'Wow'," I agree. I reach over and flip on the radio-- we listen a moment or two before I turn it off.

Everything's closed. No one's moving. Ambulances are struggling but they aren't able to go very fast - if they don't get stuck, that is. 'Don't leave the house' is repeated ad nauseum, as is the phrase, 'The Blizzard of 2007.' As the woman at the center said, the snowfall *so far* is at 14 inches... they're predicting 24 or possibly 40.

"Shit. Sunshine, I'm afraid you're stuck here for the duration."

He turns me from the window to face him. He's grinning. "Woe is me," he says mockingly. "A fate worse than death: stuck in a warm, cozy loft with plenty of food, a very comfortable bed... and a very beautiful but wretched and mean man. What EVER will I do?" 

I show my superiority and utter maturity by sticking out my tongue. I brush past him and go to the bedroom; I pull on a heavy sweater and slide into some slippers and come back downstairs. Justin's still at the window staring out at the blinding whiteness; his eyes look glazed like he's a million miles away. He's swaying a bit but oddly, he's either unconcerned or really doesn't notice at the moment. He's usually hyper aware and self-conscious when his balance falters. 

I walk over to him, the shuffle of my slippers the only sound in the hushed loft. I put my arms around him from behind and rest my chin on his shoulder, having to stoop just a little. "What are you thinking?" I whisper. In the back of my mind I realize how I *despise* that question, how lesbionic it is- how lesbionic I've *become*; and how I still truly want to know what he's thinking about.

I see from my backwards angle as he blinks at my presence and my question. He smiles slightly. He wraps his arms around mine tightening my hold on him. "Hmmmm. What am I thinking about? Really?"

I open my mouth to speak as I truly reconsider the question but he doesn't give me a chance.

"You. Me. What's happening if anything. Honesty. How the hell I'm going to pick myself up from the quicksand I'm in; how I'm ever going to be strong enough, healthy minded enough or committed enough to make just one step; to even really, really WANT to make just one step. Believe it or not, even though my life's been fucked up I've always taken the easiest way out. The easiest possible way. Drinking. Drugging. Fucking for money. I never bothered to think of the future... I never bothered to do any schoolwork, I never believed I'd make it or be anyone. But I always thought that somehow it would work itself out. Things would just become 'right' all of a sudden. I wouldn't have to do anything. And while I never bothered to think of the future, I honestly... I honestly never seriously thought of suicide. You were right the other day- even though I don't remember saying anything about making sure my life will be a 'short one', I don't doubt that I did, Brian. And I meant it. But at the very same time, I've never had any plan or genuine resolve to end it all. It's always been a vague concept to me. I can't imagine really doing it. 

"You know? In a lot of ways, although drinking and drugging have harmed me- physically, mentally, emotionally- drinking and drugging have also sort of saved me. It's been a kind of slow suicide that was (maybe) stopped in time for me to continue living. A slow suicide as opposed to a fast one like blowing my brains out, jumping off a building, taking a whole bottle of pills, slicing my wrists, etc.... I had all sorts of quick suicide options at my fingertips and I didn't even seriously consider any of them. Instead, I drank. I escaped, but not into final darkness- at least not yet. 

"…And can you imagine, Meeeeester Kinney," he adds with a sly smile. "If I hadn't gone the slow route to death and stopped just before I got there, I'd've never met you."

Huh. Whoa. 

Holy shit.

Well: I asked what he was thinking. Stupid me. So I get an unnecessary reminder why I hate that question- what'd I expect? I despise when I get in a maudlin shitass mood like this. I should be on Maury Povich: 'lesbian trapped in a gay man's body'. 

I pull my arms from around him and walk over to sit on the sofa. Suicide. Slow suicide. Slow enough that he could stop it. 

When I was a mere 7 years old, I took my father's straight razor and slashed my wrists. I still have very faint scars, one of which is hidden by my cowry shell bracelet. I'd seen it done in a movie; I forget the name of it. But there was a woman, a character who was in an abusive relationship with some asshole. She felt no hope and after a particularly brutal beating at the hands of her husband, she went to the bathroom and slit her wrists. At 7, it was fascinating to me. She had the power to escape, to simply kill herself and the pain ended. Being a child I didn't understand it really, but one night about week after I saw the movie I'd come home with a 'B' on a math test and Jack used it as an excuse to beat the shit out of me. I should've gone to the ER- the fingers in my left hand were broken. But that was too expensive, Joanie told me. And the fingers would heal alright by themselves, she added. I was a bloody mess and my fingers *didn't* heal alright. The bones knitted wrong and it wasn't till I was about 21 and had insurance that the doctors re-broke the bones and set them properly. Well, they set them as 'properly' as possible. My fingers still ache like hell when they get cold.

Anyway, the night of that beating after both Jack and Joanie had passed out drunk, I went into their bathroom and slit my wrists with that straight razor. I wanted out like the woman in that movie. 

I was so young and naïve then. Luckily or not (I'm still not sure), I didn't cut deep enough to sever the arteries or bleed to death but I remember watching in fascination as my blood, so red, so deep red, pulsed from the wounds. I remember wanting to get away from the shit at home, to get away from the fear of my father, to get away from the derision and beatings both my parents inflicted on me... 

Pfft.

The next morning, Joanie apparently found me passed out near death on the bathroom floor. I woke up in the hospital, was made to talk to some therapist who discounted the whole thing citing that essentially 'the movie made me do it', and within 2 days I was back home. They hadn't even 'fixed' my left hand- it just remained in the makeshift splint Joan had concocted.

When I got back from the hospital, Jack was angrier than ever.

Hhh. Slow suicide. Not for me. Pain management, I can do that. But killing myself - that has to be quick. I tried to again at 25 (roommate found me) and on my 30th birthday (Mikey found me hanging from the rafters when I about to have the most incredible orgasm of my life. Ha. My *life*).

I shake my head and notice that Justin's now sitting next to me on the sofa. "Now you tell me what *you're* thinking about," he says gently.

I look at him and frown slightly. "Nothing." Ass.

"Brian, do you think you have the market cornered on recognizing bullshit? News Flash: you don't, and answering 'nothing' is bullshit."

I growl. I hate when my words are used against me.

"Brian?"

"Suicide, alright? I was thinking about suicide." He looks at me shocked. "No, you twat- I'm not saying to lock up the sharps and flush all the pills. I'm not planning anything. I was just thinking about the… topic."

"What about it?"

"…How you're healthier than I am," I say before I realize.

He looks incredulous. "Hardly! You're so healthy it's disgusting! You're graceful without trying at all, you're strong, you're gorgeous, fit, incredibly fascinating, successful--"

Fuck. "--Justin, I've attempted suicide. Three times."

Needless to say, the man gasps. 

"Yeah. Surprise, surprise. I purposefully tried to kill myself- again: three times and each time I tried the 'fast' way, as you put it."

"Why?" He asks quietly. "No... I'm sorry... that's a stupid question and it's none of my business."

I shift my gaze over to the windows and watch the snow fall in a blinding spray of white, blowing and whipping into every crevice it can. "No, it isn't any of your business."

Justin looks at me sadly but thankfully doesn't push or say anything for that matter. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him swipe his lashes and reach for me. He gently pushes me to lie down on the soft leather cushions of the sofa and he lies next to me silently. I close my eyes and feel him pull a blanket over both of us. 

\---------------------------------------------

I must drift off because the next time I open my eyes, it's dusk. Brian's still asleep. The snow seems to be falling even harder- not that I mind of course. I wouldn't mind being snowed in here 'til Spring.

I carefully untangle myself from Brian, our limbs having entwined while we slept, and plod to the bathroom. I have to go BAD. On the way I clumsily stub my toe on his chaise lounge and try desperately not to curse and whimper. A staggery feeling attacks my legs and I silently pray I don't fall, have a seizure or pass out... but I do: I fall. On my hands and knees I crawl to the bathroom and close the door quickly. Somehow I maneuver well enough to relieve myself but as soon as I reach out and claw the lever to flush the toilet, I know it's about to happen.

Shit.

The last I remember, I hear my own strangled sob over the sound of the flushing toilet. Then I'm out cold.


	5. Chapter 5

  
Author's notes: Hi- thank you for reading and for the reviews! I'm still "unbeta'd" so I hope it's alright. This chapter is kinda angsty- BJ thoughts/insecurities/doubts/fears and all... please let me know what you think.   


* * *

"Justin! Justin… Fuck." I hear Brian's voice near yet far, somewhere above me; I can't see or really hear properly. My head and upper body are propped onto something firm, warm and inviting. My legs, ass and lower back are on something hard, cold, unforgiving. I try to orient myself. I try to remember what happened, where I am, whether it's my imagination or really Brian's voice calling me. 

"Brian?" I sound like a four year old hoping it's his mother making all the noise outside his room- his mother and not some monster.

"Yes brat, it's Brian. Justin, can you see me? Hear me well enough to understand me?"

I feel myself try to nod. "I ca... I can hear you...it's garbly..." I whisper hoarsely. Dammit. I realize I'm in Brian's bathroom at the loft; I had a fucking seizure and now I'm propped securely in Brian's arms, my ass still resting on the tile floor. "Brian?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry…! I'm sorry I had another seizure. I'm sorry you're seeing me like this. I'm sorry I'm like this. I'm---"

My laundry list of thousands of apologies is cut off by Brian's lips on mine. I suspect it's a gentle but pissed off Brian-way of telling me 'shut the FUCK up' and 'sorry's bullshit'. I weakly reach up to touch his face. I suddenly shiver as I realize that I must have been frothing at the mouth. Brian's kissing me... he must be utterly disgusted!

But he doesn't seem to be. When he pulls away my vision clears a little; I see my spittle on his lips, his cheeks and chin –mortified, I clumsily try to swipe the remaining spit from his face and then my own. He quirks a crooked smile. "Shut. Up." I blink at him; I'm struck each time I look at him how he gets more and more beautiful. Huh. Soppy bull. "Mr. Brain-Damage," he adds.

I frown and sigh. "What...what exactly happened?"

He sits up a bit and brushes some hair from my forehead. "I'm not sure exactly. I woke when I heard a thump- I looked up and from what I could tell, you stubbed your toe on the furniture. Klutz." I feel my frown deepen. "I was going to say something but then you fell and crawled like a madman to the bathroom. I figured you... I figured you really had to go..."

Nuh- uh. "…YOU figured since I was unable to get my muscles to work to stand up, I had to crawl (which is true) and rather than say something and possibly embarrass me, you stayed quiet."

"…Well, something like that I guess," he admits. "Although that makes me sound kindly and sensitive." 

I smirk. God forbid. "Uh huh."

"About a minute later, I heard the toilet flush and a thud. I rushed in here expecting the worst and lo and behold- the worst it was."

"Ha ha," I say both sarcastically and affectionately. "How long was I seizing...?" I dare to ask, fearful of the answer.

"... 45 minutes. I would have carried you to bed but you were gripping me so hard and our position was so enmeshed, I was afraid you'd be a spazz and crack your head on the tile floor before I was able to get you fully into my arms..."

I frown again, this time for being called a spazz but fuck, 45 minutes! 45 minutes. The spells are getting longer and they're coming on quicker. 4 months ago this would be a bother - but now having truly been at death's door, I wonder if I'm back on its doorstep again. "Thank you," I say quietly. 

He snorts, the only 'you're welcome' I get. "You think you can make it to the bed with a little help?" He asks softly.

I swallow and nod. Taking a deep breath and with Brian's help, I slowly and unsteadily get to my feet. 

Y'know? At first I was horrified he saw me have an episode last night; I was so… ashamed, I guess. I felt even more weak, sickly, less-than-nothing than I normally do. But Brian's treating me like a man- a 'brat', yes, but he's stayed with me through two seizures; he knows and he's not totally sickened by me- or worse, laughing at me. Hell, he just sat here on the chilly bathroom floor holding me for 45 minutes! I think of all the countless times since the seizures started that I've been alone; I was so physically ill and emotionally fragile afterwards that I simply went to sleep on the floor wherever I'd fallen. Again: Alone. Right now though I have Brian. I'm not alone. I'm not so scared.

But. But, how can I put him in this position? Maybe he's just being a nice guy in his abrasive but very real Kinney way- maybe I'm taking advantage of him without trying to. I mean shit: he doesn't owe me a thing! If I really think about it, there's NO reason for him to put up with the train wreck that is Justin Taylor. I'm just a judge-imposed sentence, I'm community service for something he did that I don't even know. 

And…

And: oh my God.

Oh. My. God. As we're slowly hobbling towards the bed, my feeble brain fully orients and recalls everything more clearly; I shudder.

"Justin?" His voice is low but edged with concern.

"I'm… I'm okay." Physically right now, I'm shaky but okay; emotionally, I'm suddenly terrified:

He attempted suicide. He told me he attempted suicide. 

Suicide. For real. He tried *three times*. 

The mere thought of him having tried scares me to death. I can't even wrap my mind around the possibility that he could have succeeded.

All the hope I felt just a few hours ago disappears. If I stay in his world all I'll do is bring him down. Shit, I can't even walk across the room (I stagger), I can't even talk (I slur), I can't learn (I'm intellectually stunted)- not only do I not challenge Brian on any level, I'm an obligation, a liability, an emotional black hole. Even if only as Brian's 'Little Brother', I'll still somehow fuck it up for him. I've never done otherwise for anyone that's for sure- but this time I care.

Fuck me- !!! My thoughts are so BLEAK right now! Jeremy from the center would be snarking about me having PMS; he claims I get pre-menstrual depression without the gore factor. Hhh. Maybe he's right. 

I tumble into bed once we're finally here. I lay on my back motionless for a second, then cover my face with my arm... and start to cry. Fuck. I've cried more since I met Brian than I think I ever have. I chuff a nearly-silent and bitter laugh through my dyke-ish tears: If Brian could read thoughts right now, there'd either be a Brian-shaped hole in the wall from him running away or a Justin-shaped hole in the wall from him throwing me out. 

Christ, I should have tried to kill myself the 'fast' way. And unlike Brian, *I* should have succeeded. I feel the mattress dip with Brian's weight as he lays next to me. He doesn't touch me or talk to me. He just lets me lay here and bawl my eyes out. I roll onto my belly and bury my face in the pillow. Brian's pillow. His scent pervades my senses and I cry even harder... 

_______________________________

As the twat cries into my pillow next to me in bed, I don't say a word; there's nothing to say. His sudden mood swing downward reflects my own. All the shit about his hopelessness, about suicide, about me being his 'Big Brother' ONLY (some mentor, eh?), about his goddamned seizures… all at once everything seems to hit us both *hard*. Gawd this Sucks.  Capital 'S'.  


I've known Justin mere days and in that small amount of time, my world has imploded. I've watched the house of cards I've built over the years- the perfect persona, the intellectual, the successful businessman, the sexy playboy, the pillar of strength on whom friends can always lean, the sarcastic asshole who needs no one, etc.- I've watched as it's caved in on itself. Each card I've used as a building block in my 'beautiful' castle has toppled. My beautiful castle that nearly everyone marvels at, envies, admires, believes impenetrable-- my beautiful castle that houses a million demons-- my beautiful castle of cards that without knowing it, without trying or wanting to, Justin has blown down like the wolf blew down the three little pigs' house of straw. Swept away; and all that remains are the demons that want me dead. The demons that are the real me. Jesus I get goddamned maudlin around this freak! I HATE it.

Okay, little self-control here. I'm Brian Fucking Kinney and I'm thinking like a total LOSER; this isn't how I am. In other words, this has got to stop. 

It's been a half hour of us lying on the bed together, Justin crying, me imploding. I decide to get up- do something other than stay in bed moping at this grim pity-fest. As I move to get up I pause; his sobs lessen- mostly I think from exhaustion. He lifts his head from my pillow; I vaguely notice the tearstains and saliva that drench the pillowcase where his face was buried. Guh. He peers at me through mere slits, his eyes and face are puffy from crying. His cheeks are bright pink and wet and he sniffles like a Hoover in a fishtank. "Brian?" He chokes out hoarsely. 

I raise an eyebrow. "You done being a drama princess? Or drama *queen* to be more apt? That's quite a feat to be a true queen already at your tender age."

He smirks slightly but ignores me for the most part. He drags himself walking on his elbows, the duvet wrinkling under him. He gets right up to me and like a parched man who collapses in relief when he finds water, Justin flops down, his head on my chest, blond hair tickling my chin. Oddly, I find I automatically put an arm around his shoulders; I feel him take a deep, shuddering breath. "Hhrmmmm," he whimpers.

Pity party, table for one! "Snap out of this funk, Taylor."

"Bite me," he mutters hoarsely. 

This is ridiculous. After a few minutes lying like this, "Justin?"

"Yeah?" He answers quietly, apparently half-asleep.

"What kind of stuff are they having you do? What's the program like?"

Huh? What am I asking him *that* for? 

"Huh?" He asks, also puzzled.

"You know- rehab. What work are they making you do?" Actually, focusing on the up side of things might be good. Solutions. Maybe the little trembling wreck here needs to remember the solutions the center is trying to teach him instead of focusing on his problems so much. And maybe if I knew what those solutions were, I wouldn't feel so helpless. I hate feeling helpless about as much as I hate feeling maudlin... 

He chuffs a laugh even though his breath is still hitching a little from crying so hard. "Why the fuck do you care? You aren't a drugged-out alcoholic with an abnormally small brain and the physical limitations of a 90 year old."

I snort. "Listen, blondie, you're a fucking uninvited guest in my loft 'cause of this snowstorm. You're obliged to answer to my whims—and right now I wanna know what kind of shit they're making you do…"

He peers at me skeptically then takes another deep breath. "Oooookay. First of all, Mr. Kinney, you're right: It is work. And I'm not doing it very well or hard. But we have groups- like AA, but we don't focus on the 12 steps. There's a lot of emphasis on proper nutrition and taking the right vitamins and shit; there's um… a lot of attention given to biochemistry, to biochemical bases for alcoholism and drug abuse."

"I don't need the brochure, Bill W.… just: is it helping?"

He nods slightly. "You know, it's kinda cool to find out how fucked up I am. Blood-wise and shit."

Um. Huh? I must look at him incredulously because he grins a little. 

"I mean, my histamines are all jacked, my aminos are too. I'm hypoglycemic. I have low testosterone." THAT makes me sit up and take notice. "Not so you'd notice on the outside, Mr. Stud. Jeez," he hastens to add. "What I mean by it being kinda cool that my chemistry's fucked is maybe I drink, er drank, for a reason. Of course it isn't all because of my body's chemical imbalance, but that's part of it." Excuses, excuses. But I admit that drinking oneself nearly to literal death at 17 takes genuine dedicated effort, to put it mildly. SOMEthing else besides a shitty life had to've at least added to that all-out drinking and drugging. "They don't know if I drank because of the whacked out blood chemistry or if the chemistry's whacked because of my drinking, but I choose to think the former. It makes me seem less stupid and self-destructive if I can point to a scientific cause for my near-suicidal habits, y'know?" He instantly winces- I guess realizing that I'm NOT an alcoholic but I've attempted suicide- I suppose he sees me as stupid. He looks at me desperately. "I didn't mean,—I don't at all think you're—" 

I wave him off. "Whatever."

"God, Brian, I really don't— You're one of the smartest, deepest—I don't think you're stu--" he stammers.

"--I know you don't." And I do. He doesn't.

He pauses a moment or two and brushes his hand along the blue sheets, smoothing them out. "Mmm. Exercise is a big part of the program, too- it supposedly releases endorphins which make up what they consider your body's natural chemical high. For me though, the crippled wreck I am, exercise is a joke. So I sit around and get fat."

"Pfft."

"I do! I am fat!"

"Oh for Chrissakes Justin, you're skin and bones!"

"Nuh-uh!"

"Hmm. Can we say 'a-nor-ex-i-a'?"

He swats at me playfully but doesn't say anything more about that and I start to wonder. "Anyway," he says changing the subject back to his program, "I'm supposed to meditate, plan my future, get closer to my Higher Power, my spirituality-- all that crap. It's ridiculous to me. I can't and don't want to meditate. I have no future and even if I *did*, I wouldn't sit around thinking about it. I don't want to. And fuck all the shit about a Higher Power, about spirituality. I don't believe in that. At least there isn't a power that has anything to do with me. There's no power in me or for me or anything." He gets a wistful but hard small smile. "Nope, Justin Taylor is powerless- Higher Powerless and all around powerless." Suffice it to say his tone is pretty fucking bitter.

I decide to ignore the 'Higher Power' shit. I probably lost any semblance to faith when I was a minute old so who am I to argue with him about that crap? Instead, I smirk even though he can't see my reaction. "Justin, you are the unparalleled virtuoso of self-pity, you know that? My God, what sorry-ass pathetic shit you spew out of that pretty little mouth!" He opens his lips to protest but must realize how he's sounding and thinks better of it. 

He mumbles something, frowning.

"…And," I add, " …I'm loathe to say so, but you're powerful..." Huh. What a fucked-up thing to say.

He laughs humorlessly. "Yeah... riiiight," he mocks.

"I'm serious. It takes a phenomenal power to even touch Brian Kinney's golden cage, let alone rattle it to its foundations. I've known you a relatively short time and fuck-all if…" I trail off. What the fuck am I telling this shit? Time to SHUT UP.

He lifts his head and looks at me quizzically, resting his chin on my sternum. It hurts a little. "So, you hate me 'cause you missed a night of tricking?"

I purse my lips and stay quiet. If I think about that little barb, honestly I've missed more than 'a night' because of this fairy cripple. I glance at him- the twat's studying me. "Wait." His brows knit like he's trying to divide 1 by pi. "Are you for real? Are you serious?"

"I didn't say anything. And you're digging your chin into my chest."

He still looks puzzled but then he smiles a little in understanding- understanding WHAT, I don't allow myself to explore. He shifts so his chin bone isn't gouging me. "I'm not trying to rattle your cage or anything... honest," he finally whispers. Now *I'm* puzzled. This is one jacked-up day. That's all I have to say. "I know it's been only days," he continues. "Jesus, it's wrong of me to lean on you so hard. Community service isn't supposed to involve the sort of shit I've put you through..." 

Huh. "Pfft, I know you aren't 'trying to rattle my cage or anything'. Eh. This is retarded. Just never mind..."

"Brian--"

"No! Just, no... never mind…" That's that. There's no way I have anything in common with a brain-damaged, 17-year-old alcoholic brat. This blizzard has fucked with the natural order of things; I decide that I have some kind of temporary X chromosomal infestation and that it must be squashed out of existence before it takes over.

+++

Justin sleeps next to me tonight- he's exhausted from the emotional and physical roller coaster he's been on (*we've* been on), but he has enough wherewithal to get naked this time. Gawd. Hell, but I want that sweet ass. 'Big Brother Kinney', 'Big Brother Kinney', 'Big Brother Kinney'… 

His sleep is fitful. At least he *sleeps*, the jerk. Me, I'm wide awake. In fact, I've finally given up on trying to sleep at all and I'm watching from bed as the heavy snow continues to blanket the world outside my window. 

I have to get out of here.

\----------------------------------

When I wake, I glance at the window and see that the snow is still falling hard; I think that the prediction of 40 inches is possibly a little on the low end- it's really coming down. Brian must be in the bathroom since he's not next to me nor can I see his silhouette through the frosted panels. Hmf. 

I slept for shit; my mind kept carping at me how me being in Brian's life is causing old scars to open for him. I have to stop leaning on him so much, for his sake. Yawning, I reach over to feel the sheets on his side of the bed (or, what I consider 'his' side), expecting to caress the blue fabric still warm from Brian's body.

Cold. The sheets are cold. My head whips around and I see that the bathroom door is open and the light is off. He's not there. He's not *here*. In a sudden panic, I get up just to feel the solid floor beneath my feet seem to shimmy. I fall, cursing my fucking brain for its inability to command my legs; my knees ache from the sharp collision with the floorboards. "Brian?" I call out. "BRIAN?"

Nothing. There's not a sound in the vast loft- well, except for my increased breaths. I have to focus so I don't hyperventilate. Where the fuck IS he? I try to get up but my brain still won't tell my legs to cooperate; I crawl into the living room. I notice a note on the kitchen island. Shivering more from dread and fear than cold, I crawl over and clumsily get myself up far enough to flop onto one of the barstools.

'Justin, had to get out. Later, B.'

Out? OUT? It's barely light outside-he must've left when it was dark! And in the 'Blizzard of 2007'! What a lunatic!! If he dies out there, I'll kill him! Not thinking about my logic or lack thereof, I stumble and lope as fast as I can to the door and slide it open. "BRIAN?" I yell into the hallway. "BRIAN!?"

Again: nothing. He left hours ago- I just know it. And with my fucking equilibrium so jacked, I can only crawl at the moment. Shit, even if I could run a marathon, where would I go to find him? I knew it. I knew it. That bastard. That BAStard.

I crawl like a child to the elevator to call it up. Nothing moves. I try for at least a minute but it's obviously out of order. Shit. I cast a wary look over at the stairs, steel myself and go over. Taking a deep breath, I allow my determination overcome my fear and start going downstairs. There's no way I can just wait in the loft and hope he comes back. I'll literally go crazy.


	6. Chapter 6

  
Author's notes:

THANK you all for reading and for your feedback! It's so faaaaabulous! ;) 

As alway, this is "un-beta-ed", so I hope it's readable. The next chap(s) are still angsty, I guess, for lack of a better word- I hope you continue to enjoy; the saying 'boys will be boys' applies to BJ- a hundred fold, at times... Please let me know what you think 

* * *

 

"Brian, welcome to humanity. You've finally met someone who has been through similar shit as you. And what a shock: he's a kinder, gentler version of you."

I frown at Daphne. I despise her overanalyzing mind. "Pfft. You think you know all. I'm not like Justin! I didn't prostitute myself or drink myself into a state of permanent brain-damage and pancreatitis!" I snarl. 

Her slipper is poking out from the blanket she's wrapped around her shoulders and it starts tapping. Her arms are crossed over her chest holding the blanket around her; her head is tilted and her expression can only be interpreted as 'You are so full of shit'. I wish she wasn't my best friend since I was 5. Otherwise, I could just scoff and inwardly deny that she's right as vehemently as I do out loud, but I can't- even though she hasn't actually *really* said anything. Yet. 

But what's fucked UP is that 'this kinder, gentler version' of 'me' hasn't done anything really, and the nit has turned me inside-out. He's done nothing wrong or even all that weird except bend over backwards to NOT be weird because he's scared I'll split. And here I am- I've split, in a way. I don't think the twat has ever 'bent over backwards' for ANYone (metaphorically speaking- I don't want to know the details of his hustling career). Fuckin' hell.

Daph eyes me closely. "Brian, look. For the first time in your adult life, I can see that you care about someone new. You haven't truly cared about someone you've met since you were about 17. You care about a lot of people- but your friends have been with you since you were a kid. You haven't let anyone in since you were a teenager. I mean, who the hell is there? Michael, me, Debbie, Vic, Lindsay, Emmett and yes, even Ted—" She doesn't know about Ned. Pfft. Don't want to think about him- Justin's brought up the spectre of THAT lovely period of my life PLENTY. "We all love you and you love us-- but all of us have known you for years. And never have you been in love. After you got out of high school, you never got close to anyone new. Not really. Till now. Till Justin." Her tone has become increasing tender. I HATE it. She's not a lezzie but hetero chicks are almost worse than lezzies. "Brian, let yourself let him in. I think you already have unwittingly. Brian," she says again, "he sounds like a wonderful man- yes, with problems, but he's met the master in that regard, hasn't he?" She winks. "You deserve so much, Brian- deep down I know for a fact that you don't believe you do, but you do. And from what you've told me about Justin, he may be the one you deserve. He sounds--" her sentence is cut off by a loud series of thumps out in the hallway, like someone has rolled a hefty bowling ball down the stairs. 

"What the fuck?"

Daphne glances at the clock. "It's only 7:30AM- and no one's going out in this blizzard..." she whispers.

I'm up, sliding open the door, curious.

I suppress a yelp. And I *don't* yelp. It's Justin, crumpled at the bottom of the landing. "JUSTIN!" I sprint over to him and he looks at me dizzily. 

"Do you know Brian Kinney?"

Aw, fuck!

"Do you know him? He's an idiot- he went out in this storm and I have to find him! They said on the radio that people who are getting trapped in this blizzard are dying- rescue crews can't get anywhere right now! He's..." then he seems to recognize he's talking to me. "Brian?" He moves to rub his eyes but cries out as soon as his right arm shifts.

I've knelt down next to him, not moving him from his awkward position at the bottom of the stairs- I can't be sure he hasn't broken or injured his spine. "Justin, yes, it's me, Brian. And I'm NOT an idiot." Okay: big picture, Kinney. "Don't move, okay? I'm almost positive you broke your arm and I want to be sure you didn't hurt your neck as well, so don't move," I repeat. "Look, I'm sorry--"

"--Sorry's bullshit," Justin says weakly, smiling.

I smile a little back, trying to mask my worry. "I just went downstairs to my friend's loft- I didn't go out in the storm. Luckily, she's a nurse- Daphne's a nurse-" already and without a word, she's covered him with a blanket and is examining him. "Um," I mumble over her flitting, efficient activity, "This... this is Daphne..." I look at him a moment. He seems to be dazed again. "Justin, why were you coming after me? You could have died out in that blizzard, you nob! And why did you take the stairs?" 

"The lift's broken. I have to find Brian..." Jesus. He's utterly delirious. "Y'know, man? I've known Brian Kinney only a little over 2 or 3 days altogether…"

He seems to nod out for a bit. "Justin…?" Stay awake, you twat…

His eyes are cloudy and blink slowly. "…And I already love him," he continues in a dreamy voice. Christ. "I don't know how to love- I never've loved a person… I'm scared." My stomach is knotting and I'm torn between wanting to throttle the gimp or stand up and walk away like I should've done in the first place. "I think he's falling in love with me too," he adds. I see Daphne glance at me out of the corner of my eye. It's an unspoken 'I told you so'. Bitch. 

"You know what else?" 

"Justin, get a grip." Okay... now I pray he'll be alright so I can kill him later. 

Daphne is still checking him over and I'm waiting for her to nod that it's okay to move him. "…I want to be a man just like Brian Kinney when I get older." I cringe at that for *many* reasons. "I can't be though. I'm all messed up in the head... hell, I nearly drank myself to death. I may still, you know that?" I sigh. I guess the good thing is that at least he's conscious and talking- talking drivel perhaps, but talking nonetheless. "I may still!" He repeats. "Brain-damage or not, death or not, I just wanna go drink. You know? You know that? Even though I can't get my brain to make my legs work, I still wanna drink. Or hey!" He adds conspiratorially. "Better yet: you got any smack, dude? I'll blow you for some smack. Hell! I'll blow you for free- you're fuckin' HOT! I never imagined it possible, but you're almost as hot as Brian… don't feel pissed: NO one's AS hot as Brian. But you look just like him… Hmmmmm…." He stops and is quiet; he has a sloppy, gushy, gaga smile on his face. I wanna slug him. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck-Holy fuck. Shit. 

"I AM Brian," I say as calmly as I can. He doesn't seem to hear me; he's really spooking me- that's hard to do, even for him.

Suddenly, he looks around wildly- Daphne is holding his head so all he can move are his eyes. "Where am I?" His train of thought seems to have jumped tracks again. "Shit, I was crawling downstairs and I think I fell- my leg got caught in the banister. I'm so clumsy. It sucks... I gotta find Brian!"

I take a deep breath. Fuck- enough of this babbling. "Justin, listen to me, okay? You're dazed- you're right: you fell down the stairs so we're checking you over. You're safe. And I'm Brian. I'm right here, not out in the blizzard. I'm right here with you. I'm okay, you're okay. Do you understand?" Fuck-- I sound like Barney.

He looks at me with clouded eyes. "I'm safe...? Brian's… you're safe...? Brian's safe?"

I smile. "That's the gist of it, I suppose. Minus the question marks. Yes." Daphne glances at me and nods- Thank God. He didn't hurt his spine. "Sunshine?"

"Sunshine!" He beams. "Brian calls me that! I get tingly and," he lowers his voice to a whisper, "And I get all hard when he calls me 'Sunshine'." He tells me this like he's revealing the combination to access Fort Knox. I vaguely notice Daph smirking at me.

"Justin, it's ME- it's Brian," I tell him again. "Bri-an," I articulate slowly. 

Now the bitch frowns disapprovingly. "Don't talk down to him, Brian! He may be completely out of it, but he's not stupid!"

"Yeah, right," I huff sarcastically. "Listen Justin, I'm going to carry you up to my loft, okay? Daphne's checked you over. Your back didn't get fucked up in the fall." I glance at Daph. "Will you come up for a minute or two, Daphne?"

She smiles now. "Of course. I have my first aid kit- that arm's broken, I'm afraid; I'll set and wrap it well enough for the next few days until you can get him to a hospital." I pick Justin up and head upstairs towards my loft. Daphne follows with her kit. She's in her PJs, still holding the blanket around her. "He has a concussion too, I think," she continues. "I'd keep him awake for the next 14 hours or so. He's so dazed, I don't think I'll bother officially meeting and making a fuss over him until he's more aware-- that way, I can watch you wince and cringe with every gaga thing I say about you. And him. 'Cause just by looking at him I can see he's your type: namely, hot. And I may be biased but I like the things he says about you and the feelings he obviously has for you. He's not lying- not only is he delirious and isn't censoring what he's saying, but if he knew what he was saying about you in FRONT of you, I'd bet a million bucks he'd want to wither away and die!" She nudges me playfully in the back as we reach my floor and she follows us into my loft. "Lastly, even delirious, he's pretty astute. You are *definitely* falling for him." 

I'm glad I made it through 'lastly' without dropping the kid and strangling her. I can't believe I made it through ANY of it without even a snide comment. I lay Justin down on the bed, keeping him snugly wrapped in the blanket. "Justin?" He looks at me and smiles. "Justin, do you know who I am?" Even though his expression appears cognizant, the brat slips in and out of delirium so frequently I'm honestly not sure.

"Brian."

"Hm-mmm. Do you know where you are?" I notice Daphne coming into the room with a pan of plaster of Paris to wrap up his arm.

"Heaven..."

I snort. "No, Justin. You're in my loft."

His smile gets sly, like that's what he meant. 

"Smartass. Fuck off." I pause as Daph takes his arm into her lap. He whimpers in pain and his head whips around to see what's happening. Hhhuhshit. "Justin, Sunshine? Look at me, not your arm. It will hurt for a moment as Daphne sets it but you'll feel much better afterwards. Just let her put the cast on." He looks back at me, his face like a little boy about to burst into tears. 

Guh. Okay. Distract him. Think Gus but about 15-16 years older. "You like to cook, right?" He nods. "Want to make dinner for us sometime soon?" He grins weakly and nods. "Can you make something with chicken?"

"Hmmmm!" He hums happily. "Yeah… I make a great chicken piccata!"

"Sounds good... how do you make it?" 

"You are SO transparent and so LAME!" Daph whispers as she works, smiling.

I am. But Justin doesn't seem to think so. He starts rattling off all the ingredients and details about how to cook the dish, wincing terribly in the middle when Daphne quickly sets the bone in his arm. But my little distraction seems to work overall- for him, anyway. I, however, hiss inwardly with every movement Daphne makes fixing him up. I certainly don't listen to him prattling away- not only is chicken piccata utterly boring to me but I'm too freaked out to even pretend to listen.

Finally Daphne's done. She kisses me good bye, promises to seriously embarrass me over Justin later when he's more awake, and reminds me of his concussion. Ah, joy.

__________________

"What happened?" I ask. I notice Brian sighing in response. I feel like I may have asked him that already. "Have I... have I asked that already?"

"Yeah. That's okay. Okay," he sighs, like he's about to recite a story for the umpteenth time, "Like a twat, you went to find me after I left a note this morning saying I had to get out for a bit; you were too unsteady to walk so you were crawling- the lift was broken so you decided to use the stairs. Unfortunately, you ended up falling down them. I was just down one flight seeing my friend and neighbor and we heard the fall- we found you. For being a relatively bright lad, you're SUCH a moron," he adds parenthetically. He rolls his eyes like he's royally ticked but I hear a twinge of relieved worry in his tone. I smile sheepishly. "You broke your arm and got a concussion, but you're otherwise just fine. You were pretty dazed- and you're still pretty forgetful. But in a way you're fucking lucky you fell when and where you did, Sunshine. Otherwise you'd have been an idiot frozen solid in a snow drift, and not just an idiot with a broken arm in my loft. That's the long and short of it." He takes a deep breath. "And, even though sorry's bull Sunshine, I'm sorry I didn't tell you that I was just going downstairs."

"Why didn't you?"

He looks a little put off. "I was... I wanted space. I just needed to get away."

"From me?" My voice is squeaky. I know the answer: 'yes'. 

"Yeah."

I'm quiet awhile. "Can I ask why?" I venture bravely- STUPIDLY. I *know* why!

He grimaces and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Christ, Justin…" he glances at me and lets out a small frustrated huff. "Get that irritating, murder-inspiring, wounded look off your face! I'm officially sick of this whole thing! You wanna know? Okay: The reason why is because I needed- NEED- a breather from you. You... you've gotten too…" he doesn't finish.

"Annoying?"

"Yes."

"Aggravating?"

"Yes."

"Difficult?"

"Yes."

"Fascinating, entertaining, erotic, beautiful…?"

He smirks. "No."

"Okay. Damaged? Ugly? Dependent? Weak? Boring? Brainless?"

He looks at me, genuinely stunned. "The fuck?"

"I said—"

"—I heard you." He pauses distractedly. "Wasn't going to say any of that." 

"Then…?"

"For fuck's sake, 'too close'. Okay? You've gotten too close, too fast."

Even if I already knew this, hearing him say it makes my heart sting a bit. I don't know why- if I look at it from a selfish point of view, it's fabulous. I got 'too close too fast' to the mysterious, beautiful, seemingly untouchable Brian Kinney. But. It scares the shit out of him. And me, too- I've never felt safe with someone before. "Um. I'm sorry."

"Fff…" he waves me off. No 'sorry's bullshit' this time.

After a beat, "When I can get out once the snow stops, I'll leave," I say quietly. "At the risk of sounding like a drama queen, I honestly don't want to suck you into the black hole of my life." I chuckle but it's humorless.

He's silent a minute or so. I almost literally pray he'll laugh, call me a B-grade diva and tell me I'll do nothing of the sort. But he doesn't. He scowls, staring unseeing at the wall. "Fuck you and your pitiful rants. Your life's not a black hole, Justin. I'm sick of this 'poor me' crap. Listen, if you want to leave, go. When the storm's over, though… you're staying here till then. It's probably healthier for you to be away from me anyway."

I look down at my hands. They're fucking trembling again- like the day I met him. Leaving's the opposite of what I want. I want him. But... "Okay," I whisper.

Brian gets up from where he was sitting by me on the bed. "Hungry?" Oddly, his voice cracks.

"Not really."

"Okay, then. It's been over 14 hours since your fall; you can sleep safely now. I'll leave you so you can rest."

A yelled 'NO!' catches in my throat as I see him leave the room, taking a blanket so he can sleep on the sofa. Shit. "Good night," I say instead, so low I doubt he hears me. Tears form in my eyes and spill silently onto my cheeks. This is all just an example of how I should be dead. Just dead. Dead, I can't feel hurt, I can't hurt another, I can't do anything. As it should be.

I turn out the light, roll over on my side feeling the tears slide sideways on my face and I resolve that once I get back to the center, I'll take care of it. I'll do it the fast way this time. By then, Brian will be free of me anyway. May as well be dead.

___________________

I wake up with my legs cramping terribly and one arm nearly crushed under my head; fucking sofa. It's too small for me to sleep on comfortably. Well, I guess saying that I'm too tall is more accurate. I'm pissed off and can't clearly figure out why (except that I'm sore from sleeping in an awkward position). 

Oh. Yeah. Justin. He pops into my head in an instant and I curse. Fucker.

I look out the windows. The snow's stopped- there's even some very weak sunlight shining through. I can hear the groaning rumble and scrape of plows outside already working on clearing the roads.

I guess Sunshine can go back to the center today.

Well, good. It's the healthiest, best thing for him to do. He needs someone who can help him help himself- he's a brassy blond brat, but he's also terribly sensitive. I'm *not*. He especially needs to get away from me if he believes he's falling for me. Which incidentally, is ridiculous. 

I roll onto my side into a fetal position and pull the blanket over my head wanting to block out the loft, the sunlight, the world... I'm innately no escapist but this morning, the cold, empty void where my heart should be feels heavy and leaden and I want the world to disappear. I know I won't sleep but I close my eyes anyway.

+++

I guess I was wrong about not sleeping because when I open my eyes, it's apparent from the sunlight in the loft that it's mid-afternoon. I sit up abruptly-- something's different. Something's not right. I look around and the loft is empty; I peer into the bedroom and see the bed is empty too. There's no sound except for the dripping of melting snow on the windows and outside window ledges. "Justin?" Nothing. "JUSTIN?" I call again. Shit. I get up and wrap the blanket around me since I'm naked and the loft is cold. "JUSTIN?"

Then I see the paper resting on the kitchen island. What is this? Poetic justice? Is Justin getting me back for doing this to him? I go over and pick up the note, cursing under my breath. It's written in a very uneven scrawl.

'Brian, I want you to know I don't want to leave, I want to be with you-- I lo...' [he crosses out 'lo-' two times]... 'fuck it. I love you. There. I said it. Well, I wrote it. I know you think love's a hetero construct, bullshit, a lie, and I know you would never say so, but deep down you don't believe you deserve love anyway (if you believed in it, of course), and finally, I know I've only known you a short time... but I do. Love you, I mean. But staying here isn't good. 

\-- Always, Sunshine (thanks for that nickname.)

(P.S. Don't worry- I took a cab.)'

The last few lines are blurry and I don't understand why until a droplet falls onto the paper gripped in my shaking fingers. Some of the ink smears. Fuck me!

I slump down on a stool and stare at the piece of paper. A cab? With what money?

Pfft, I won't go after him- not for the bullshit reason I'd normally give, though- namely that I never go after anyone. But because it's better with him gone. He's right. It's not good. He needs to focus on himself, not some 38-year-old man. I certainly have better shit to do with my time than spend it with some gushy, slurring, feeble-minded lesbian. Hell.

I suppose I can call Mr. Marsh to find out how Justin's doing- you know, just call Marsh periodically- to see how the little shit is making out.

I shiver despite the blanket, ball up the note and throw it towards the trashcan (I miss). I head for the shower.

 


	7. Chapter 7

  
Author's notes:

Thank you so much for reading and for the reviews! I truly love the feedback! Again, this is "un-beta'd", so please forgive any flubs.

This chap is a bit 'angsty-bleak' (big sigh): Can't go back, things suck as they are, and it *seems* there is no 'forward'... life's a bitch you know, and then... 

* * *

 

Two weeks drag into three since I left Brian's and have been back here at the center. Deep down I think I was wishing- hoping- he'd come after me. Even though I knew he wouldn't. And I know this is best. 

I haven't told the doctor about my seizures. I haven't been going to meetings. I haven't taken the vitamins. I'm still a doddering, fall-down fool. I've been overeating, hardly sleeping, never speaking and health-wise, I feel like shit. Bluntly speaking: I'm a wreck. A hopeless, brainless, Brian-less wreck. Maybe I should invite Brian to my own personal pity party-- he'd LOVE that.

I've held a razor to my wrist at least a dozen times since I left Brian's; I've held it to my left wrist, hoping it will do the 'trick' since my right is still encased in a cast. I promised myself before I left the loft that I'd end it when I got back here, and do it the fast way. I've stared at the razor against my skin each time, each time willing myself for hours to just DO it, to just drag it across my wrist and sever the artery there... each time my mind screams at me: 'just *DO* it, dammit!'... but ironically, each time what stops me from killing myself is the image of Brian's face. Brian smirking, laughing, teasing me, smoking, scowling, frowning... caring... and I can't bring myself to even break the skin. Even though I'm no longer in his life and he's no longer in mine.

It's insane, really. Wellllll, I guess being unable to truly, purposefully kill yourself isn't insane. In fact, most would consider that a very sane quality. But I have nothing to live for. I don't mean just because Brian's not in my life anymore, although oddly, that feels like a lot of it. No, I mean there's NOTHING. Now that I'm not in a perpetual mind-sizzling haze of drugs and booze, now that I'm not in a just-clean state of tentative hopefulness, now that I see how bleak everything really is: it feels insane to me not to just end it.

Shit. 

Dinner's over and I stack my tray on all the others. Once Jeremy, the guy 'assigned' to me, leaves for his room, I make a decision. Without allowing myself to think much, I exit the cafeteria and walk briskly but not hurriedly to the front door. I pull my cast into my coat sleeve and pray that I can stave off a lovely demonstration of my lack of balance until I at least get outside. I don't know exactly what I'm doing- well, deep down I guess I do- but that's where 'not allowing myself to think much' comes in. I'm not stopped, strangely enough. But after meals is always a little chaotic at the center plus the staff shift changes, so no one really even notices me. Walking as steadily as possible and like I have purpose helps, too. Again, I just don't let myself think much about what that purpose may be.

As soon as I'm successfully out the front door I see how rapidly the evening is darkening into night; good- blackness suits me. I take a deep breath and my knees nearly buckle. It feels like a weight has been lifted although all my perceptions are mixed with a dizzying vertigo. I hurry down the sidewalk and don't look back because not only would I fall if I tried to turn my head, but I don't want to be anywhere within sight of the center.

As the distance between me and that hell hole increases, I allow my thoughts to start to surface clearly. 'Thoughts'- ha! Only two things scream in my consciousness: 'BRIAN'. And, 'NO'. NO, I can't see him...

So basically I just keep walking- or more accurately, staggering. As darkness falls completely, I hold my coat close to keep warm. After an hour, I look up and find I've 'walked' all the way to Andy's. Lovely. Here I am: back at the old homestead: the run-down, abandoned, condemned shit-hole whore/crash-house on Gaylord Street. Hm. I go into the decrepit building and while the place is the same, the faces are slightly new since I was last here. Not that new- I mean the people are new to me but their expressions aren't: strung out, crying, dirty, emaciated from heroin or crack and/or passed out. Ah, the good ol'days: just like I remember (hell, it's only been a few months). There's no electricity of course, so there are a couple of lit candles in the middle of the floor, tilting dangerously near the cracked wood. I scan the dimmed faces along the wall and stop cold when I see Andy. Passed out. His latest fuck-toy is passed out next to him-- he can't be older than 12 or 13.

My stomach rolls... no... I can't do this. I can't go back to this. I quickly turn around to leave- which is a very, very stupid thing for me to do. I lose all semblance of balance and crumple to the grimy floor. I look around on my hands and knees and see countless dirty, mostly empty hypodermic needles on the ground around me. Instinctively I try to sit up on my knees- and find that two needles have embedded in my left palm. Horrified, I yank them out with the barely moveable fingers of my casted right hand. 

SHIT, SHIT, SHIT! 

Tears of panic and fear start to fill my eyes as I curse- curse myself, the dirty needles, my defective brain, my shitty health overall, my maudlin outlook - and Brian... the fact that I met the fucker. The fact that I'm desperately in love with him. The fact that I'll never ever see him again. The fact that the asshole has so thoroughly invaded my psyche.

As I curse I almost laugh at the very real possibility that I may have just contracted HIV from one or both of those needles. Fuck quick or slow suicide. I think I just may have inadvertently made it so I have no choice but to die. Well: GOOD. (Right?)

Shaking, I get up slowly, wavering in place as I try to keep my balance. I teeter on my feet but still move forward towards the door to get out of here; then I hear Andy behind me-- I know it's him without even looking.

"Taylor!! Slut! You finally came back for more, eh? Come back tomorrow baby doll, 'cause I got some rich johns all lined up for some hot blond boy ass, motherfucker! I know where you are now, man! I had you hooked up that whole week an' then you vanish- at least 50 guys! Fucker! You better be back here tomorrow or you and your sexy GQ pimp will regret it!"

The inane babbling hits me, yes, but not until he refers to Brian do I swing around to stare at him- which makes me stumble and collapse on the floor again. Andy laughs; he's so skied I'm surprised he can- I'm truly amazed he can even speak. His young fuck-toy has roused and laughs too, though he has no idea why. If Andy finds something funny, fuck-toy laughs too. "Can't stand, eh? That center you've holed up in isn't helpin' much, is it? Still so piss drunk and high you can hardly stand up! Loser!! Just remember my promise, fuckface-- if you ain't here tomorrow to offer your ass for green then you and your hot sugar daddy are TOAST."

Dizzy or not, needles all around me or not, I slap my palms on the floor to maneuver to stand and flee, but I can't get up. I can't. It could be Brian's life or fucking death and I CAN'T STAND.

So… I crawl, desperate, avoiding trashed needles as best as I can; I scramble out of the dilapidated house into the cold, black night. My head is spinning and both arms hurt- the broken one aches from being jarred each time I've fallen and my left hand is now stinging where the needles stuck me. I can't care at the moment- I have to get away. Andy and his toy's drunken, high cackling follows me as I crawl as fast as I can as far as I can from the sound; I must look like some horror movie creature-of-the-night moving down the sidewalk. I notice as the noise grows fainter that others in the house have maniacally joined in, not even aware of their surroundings- just hearing laughter and laughing too.

Shit. I realize that now I'm a bawling, quivering, terrified mass of nerves. I stop my crazy crawling race against no one when I get about three blocks away from the house. My jeans are shredded at the knees and the heels of my palms are skinned raw from the rough cement. Slowly, using what must be one of the last surviving payphone kiosks in the world, I force myself to stand. No one's out for some reason- thank God. Otherwise I'd've been crawling past people and that would've caused a few raised eyebrows- and elicited a few phone calls to the cops about some lunatic in the streets. I wipe my snotty, tear-stained face on my coat sleeve but it doesn't help much. I try to focus on breathing- in and out, in and out. Relax, Justin... relax... working yourself into more of a state won't help you at all right now...

I look around. I'm surprised that the payphone I'm leaning against has a receiver that hasn't been torn out. Permanent marker scrawls are all over the metallic surface; 'I'll blow for blow' and 'call to fuck young virgins raw' sort of messages cover it like calligraphy on a medieval manuscript. Without allowing myself to think much (since that tactic has been SO effective for me so far tonight- ha ha), I reach a shaking hand into my coat pocket; I pull out a tattered slip of paper. I pick up the receiver, deposit 2 coins I'm thankful I have and dial, trying to ignore the blood from the needle punctures in the palm of my trembling hand. But as the phone rings, I count 5 bloody pinpricks.

Shit.

* "What the hell is it now? Mikey, I'm on my way out the door! Gimme a fuckin' break!!" 

My heart leaps but my instinct is to hang up. Brian obviously didn't look at the caller ID. Silence. Silence for at least one of my three allotted minutes. Why the fuck DON'T I hang up!? I should just go back to Andy and do as he says and Brian won't be in danger. But… Jesus, my heart aches so bad.

* "Justin?" His voice is quiet and I hardly hear it, but a wave of relief washes through me despite myself. "Justin? Is that you? Justin, where are you? 'Public phone'? The fuck!?" He's obviously checked the caller ID now. "This IS you- isn't it? This isn't the center's number! Where…?" 

"I'm..." I don't really know where I am and I feel... faint all of a sudden.

* "Justin! Where the fuck are you?" He's getting mad. No. Not mad. He sounds more panicked. "Taylor, where the HELL are you!?" He repeats.

"I - I don't know..."

Apparently this isn't an option for Brian. * "WHERE ARE YOU??"

++"Please deposit... 25 cents for the next three minutes..." a recording interrupts. 

* "JUSTIN!"

I look around and spot a street sign- funny, really, that I used to haunt this area so much but am so clueless about where I am. I was so completely tweaked all the time, I never knew street names or anything- just Gaylord where I fucked, sucked, used and crashed. That's disturbing, of course, but what's more immediately disturbing is the word on the sign I'm trying to focus on is blurry and seems to sway before my eyes. "There's a sign... it says Tremont..." huh. That's Brian's street. But he's across town.

Just then the phone clicks and there's a dial tone. Disconnected. Soon there's another recording telling me shit about 'if you would like to make a call...'

Fuck. I slam down the phone. I feel like I'm going to pass out. As awful as I feel about contacting Brian, I find myself wishing I had just one more quarter. But I'm moneyless. And I'm cold. And in danger- as is Brian- of Andy. 

...And I feel incredibly sick. 

Hopeless, I collapse on the sidewalk and curl as tightly as I can in on myself feeling achy, hot, cold, nauseated and like I want to die. I'll never see Brian again. I'll never get better. There are too many hurdles. Tonight I've discovered I can't go back. I already know I can't go forward. There's NOTHING. I wish Brian were here right now, berating me for wallowing in my misery. But he's not.

Giving up, I close my eyes.


	8. Chapter 8

  
Author's notes:

This chap is sorta all over the place- it's hard to sum up. :) For some reason, I'd already posted this but it didn't take- but there were some oddities going on with the site or whatever. 

Thank you for the reviews!!!

* * *

After being disconnected from Justin I curse, confused and pissed off. I snatch my keys from the kitchen island and race down to the Jeep. What the fuck is going ON? Tremont, he said Tremont... there aren't any payphones on Tremont that I've ever seen. Hell, these days there aren't any payphones ANYwhere! Why the fuck the center takes everyone's cell phones is beyond me- well, not really (it's so easy to contact your dealer from the delightful privacy of your own room)... but still...

I race the only way down Tremont that won't land me in the river within 2 blocks and within a half hour, the neighborhood is decidedly different. Lining the littered, grimy streets are mostly abandoned crack houses or makeshift hovels. I've never been on this side of town before, amazingly enough. Even the shitty area I grew up in wasn't like this. Gangs are milling on street corners, drugs are being bought and used right out in the open, people are either wasted or on their way to wasted. It's disgusting. Is Justin around here? Is this... is this where he was living just months ago??

I stop and ask a few people if they've seen a young, upset blond- but not only is everyone pretty much stoned out of their gourd, they simply don't care. Slowly scanning Tremont, I wend down through the neighborhood keeping my eyes peeled for a payphone. At the corner of Tremont and Gilpin, I see one about a block away. With someone curled up at its base. Bingo. That asshole motherfucker.

I speed up a little and pull over next to the huddled body. I sigh in relief. It's him. Passed out and clinging to himself...I try to determine if he's high before I get out of the car. I can't tell- he's basically motionless. But I can see he's been crying and in a panic. I get out and look around; the street's deserted. "Justin!" He doesn't stir. "JUSTIN!" I'm mad. Really mad. The stupid shit could've been killed out here- ! How'd he get all the way here from the center? He can barely walk! "**JUSTIN!**" I yell.

He shifts a little and I vaguely hear him muttering something. I shake him and his arm falls away from his body to the sidewalk; I suck in a breath. His hand is badly scraped up and there's blood, dried and fresh, dripping from several small pinhole-like wounds on his palm... needle marks? But in his *palm*? I shake him roughly. "JUSTIN!" His eyes slowly open and he looks at me blearily, his sclerae are almost completely yellow and pink. "What did you take, Justin? What are you on?" I try to keep the panic out of my voice.

"Brian! Brian!? Is that really you?"

Fuck. "Yes. What are you on...? Justin, tell me!"

"Brian..." he breathes, relief evident in his tone. "Nothing. I didn't use! I didn't take anything- honest." He coughs uncontrollably a few moments. "Brian…" he rasps. "I feel so cold and my whole body aches... I feel like I'm--" he suddenly sits up a little and retches, something green and orange spews from his mouth. Peas and carrots... lovely.

He retches until he's dry heaving; I press softly on his back to let him know I'm here but I don't say anything. When he's done, I gently pull him away from the stinking mess and help him to his wobbly feet. "C'mon Sunshine," I say, pulling his arm around my shoulder, supporting him. He's almost dead weight and I have to throw my hip against him to maneuver him to the Jeep. "Fuck... try to help me out here, Justin," I mutter- but he's oblivious.

I get him sloppily into the passenger side and get in to drive. I start the ignition but don't pull away yet. I look over at the feverish kid and swallow the bile in my throat. "Justin..." he looks at me. "Tell me what the fuck is going on..."

He smiles wanly. "Brian..."

Okay, this nearly constant 'Justin-delirium' thing has gotten OLD. "Justin, talk to me." I'm so pissed. "Why is your palm bleeding?"

He raises his arm and practically smashes his nose to look at his hand. He frowns exaggeratedly. "Needles!" He exclaims as if just remembering.

So, needles... terrific. "Explain," I demand.

"I fell - needles were everywhere... Everywhere! I didn't feel the pricks at first." He starts giggling. "Didn't feel the pricks! Heh! I was crawling for my life to get *away* from the pricks!! Oooo- Brian... you have to be careful too. Andy knows about you- his goons have followed you!" What is this, the '50's? 'Goons'? "I've put you in danger, Brian! I'm sorry..." His tone has gone from drunkenly giddy to very somber. I believe him that he hasn't taken anything- not on purpose anyway. But if he was stabbed by needles when he fell, it's very possible that a trace amount of drugs entered his bloodstream from one or more of them. If he hasn't used in awhile, even a small amount can hit him hard. Besides that, he looks like he has the flu or something. This kid is a walking disaster, I swear. And this 'Andy' garbage- I'll get more out of Justin about that later, when he's more lucid and healthy.

I pull away from the curb and head towards the loft; "Justin, don't focus Andy, whoever that is- just relax, okay? I'm taking you to the loft. You're going to clean up, get lots of rest- and most of all, stop fretting like a mother hen. And even MORE than 'most of all': you're going to stop being a fucking, goddamned TWAT all the time!" I spit. He winces slightly and I try to calm myself down. "Look, you're sick and maybe a little tweaked- but you're fine. So do what I say and don't argue."

I glance over as it starts to sleet outside; Justin's not listening. He's passed out again, his cheeks jiggling with the motion of the Jeep. He's so fucking pale, if it weren't for the short gaspy breaths coming from his ashen lips, I'd worry he was dead.

Finally, we're at the loft; the sleet is falling harder- what is it that when I get around Justin, there are rather severe weather disturbances? The huge amount of snow that bombarded the city in Justin's honor 3 weeks ago is still piled in mountainous drifts along the edges of walk- and roadways.

I get out of the Jeep; I can't wake him so I carry him slung over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes. When I step off the lift at my floor I stifle a groan- there's Mikey, wet, angry, arms crossed and foot tapping. "YOU FUCKER! YOU WERE GOING TO MEET ME AT WOODY'S TWO HOURS AG--" his mouth clamps shut when he registers me, bedraggled and angry, carrying what looks like a dead man over my shoulder. "Brian?" He whispers incredulously.

I sigh deeply. "Mikey," I acknowledge curtly. I shove past him, unlock the door and enter the loft. My muscles thank me profusely as I flop Justin onto the sofa. He's a twig by looking at him- but hell, his bones must be made of lead. Cold, sore, creaky, I turn around and face Michael who's followed me in. He stares at me, then Justin, then me again, his face completely horrified. "Michael, this is Justin," I introduce perfunctorily. "He's a guy I met through that community service shit I have to do. He's sick and got stuck out in the sleet so--"

"Brian, he's more than sick! He's a junkie! He's toasted! And look at his clothes! Muddy old sweats and sneakers that were probably 'in' in the '80's!" He peers at Justin closer. "Brian! Those are YOUR old sweats!!" I glance at Sunshine. Sure enough. He's wearing my sweats- and from the looks of them, he's been wearing them daily since he left over three weeks ago.

"Nevermind that. And he's not toasted, Mikey. He's sick, like I said. He needs rest. Come back tomorrow."

"Briiian!" He whines- fuck, I hate that sound more and more every time I hear it- he's 39! Whining is something I expect from someone Gus' age, not Mikey's!

"Michael…!" I warn.

He huffs. "Fuck you, Brian Kinney! You chose to help some strung-out, half-dead, dead-end teenaged twink over hanging out with ME? Fuck you! I won't come over tomorrow and I'll never call you again!" Gawd, he's made that threat so many millions of times, it's laughable. I half-wish he fucking meant it. But I know he'll go home, gripe to Debbie, bitch to Emmett in hopes that Emm'll spread the 'evil, heartless Brian' rumors around Liberty Avenue, and call me tomorrow by 9AM to make plans to go out for lunch or drinks... He's so predictable it's pathetic. It's been years and years since Emmett has taken any of Michael's tales of woe on face value-- particularly when they involve me. I honestly have mixed feelings about that-- before, by the time I'd get wind of whatever story or stories were flying around about me, some have been so outrageous and hilarious I've actually written them down. Y'never know- I like writing - maybe someday I'll write my memoirs and include a few of the more ridiculous anecdotes.

All this is going through my tired brain as I watch Mikey stalk off, slamming the loft door behind him- which jars Justin awake. He looks around. "Brian?"

My shoulders slump a little and I go over to the sofa. "Right here, Sunshine. Can you get up? I'll help you to the bed."

He looks at me confused and dazed. "Brian?" He repeats.

"C'mon." I grunt as I lift him to his feet. We hobble, weaving, to the bed where I let him go and he collapses onto the mattress. He's soaking wet and cold- and still very feverish. I take off his shoes, strip him down and wrap him securely in the covers. I trash the wet muddy sweats of mine he was wearing, strip down myself and curl up next to him under the covers, turning out the light so that all that glows are the blue neons over the bed. Well, and Justin's pale, pale skin- which normally is like porcelain but now is pasty and a sickly shade of very light grey. He's out again so I hold him to me, feeling how alarmingly hot his skin is even though he's shivering.

"Brian..." he sighs in his sleep.

I hold him tighter and close my eyes. I drift into an uneasy, restless sleep. And I don't allow myself to think too much.

\---------------------------

I wake up with warm, strong arms around me, soft blue light everywhere, a sharp and confusing sting in my hand and a thumping pounding in my head. I then notice Brian wrapped around me sleeping and I know I must be dreaming. Not only is it impossible that this looks like Brian's loft and I'm secure in Brian's arms- but everything is foggy, like there's a thick mist in the room. What happened? Am I really sleeping? I mean, this feels 'real'. I shift a little. I check if I'm asleep like Bugs Bunny would and pinch myself.

"Justin," Brian mumbles groggily, his eyes staying closed.

No. No way. He's not real. Hazy images of being in my old neighborhood swim briefly into my consciousness. I must be having a very confusing wet dream: Brian next to me naked, beautiful, alluring, safe-- this, juxtaposed with more blurry images of whoring myself, drugging, being raped by Andy as he would laugh and tightly fist what little money was 'my cut' from the sometimes dozens of johns he sent me to that night... I shudder involuntarily.

"Justin." Brian's eyes are open now; they startle me. They're gentle, sleepy and twinkling softly, reflecting the blue light. He looks slightly irritated. "Hey..." he says simply.

"Hey," I whisper, afraid if I talk loud I'll wake up and find myself in Andy's room with dust and grime everywhere, cum stains all over the mattress... I find myself staring at Brian for the same reason: if I blink, he might disappear and reality will take over. But wait. How can I be dreaming of Brian and having a nightmare about Andy simultaneously? I didn't know them at the same time... in fact, if I know Brian, is the Andy shit all in the past? I shake my head, trying to make some sense of this.

Brian shifts and I feel him against my body, naked, warm, strong... "Justin, are you okay?" He asks with a yawn as he gently presses the soft, cool inside of his wrist to my forehead for whatever reason. He pulls it away with a barely perceptible smile of what looks like relief. Huh. He doesn't say anything.

Am I okay? "Confused," I answer honestly.

"You're fever broke," he mutters more to himself than me.

I gaze at him disbelievingly. There's just no way… "Are you a dream?"

He chuckles a little. "Pfft! What is it with you? Nearly every time you see me you ask me if I'm real, if this is real, if this is a dream, if I'm a dream... if I wasn't such a megalomaniac, I'd start questioning my own existence."

It IS Brian!

It all falls into place then- running away from the center, going to the crack house I lived in for years, seeing Andy, him threatening me and Brian, getting jabbed by discarded needles, crawling as fast as I could to escape, calling Brian in foggy desperation, Brian finding me - rescuing me after I'd curled up under that payphone... then briefly waking up in a haze… and there's something in my memory about someone else here in the loft. I think Brian called him 'Mikey'...

*Here in the loft*. Hmmmm! I smile way more happily than I should. "Brian... oh, God... thank God..." I breathe, wrapping my arms around him, reveling in the warmth of his skin pressed against me. "Brian..."

Brian frowns a little as he wakes more fully. "Justin," he says quietly, "why did you run away from the center? Why'd you go to that horrific neighborhood?" He pauses. "And why'd you call me?"

"I dunno why I ran away... honest..." well... yeah, I do. I clear my throat. "Well, deep, deep down I guess I knew why."

He cocks an eyebrow in question, but says nothing.

"I... hm. I... uh. I'd rather not tell you, Brian. You'll get angry."

He looks at me thoughtfully- there's even a wee glimmer of humor in his eyes. Then he scowls. "You may as well tell me. I'm way past angry."

Huh! "No!"

He narrows his long lashed, beautiful green-chocolate eyes at me- they're evil. "Tell. Me."

"NO!"

"Did you leave to find me?"

Truly? Yes. "No."

"'Cause if you did, you went the wrong direction on Tremont. And they have phones at the center..."

I don't want to say anything so I don't; I just rest my head on his shoulder and take a few deep breaths. I glance at his face; he's looking at me bemused, worried, angry, confused. After a couple minutes, I reach out and touch his cheek. "I... I'm sorry, Brian. I really am. I wanted to get out of the center. I deep down wanted you- but I tried to bury that, Brian. Honest I did. I thought I could go back to my old 'life'- turning tricks to get money and drugs. I know going back to that will kill me- but that's what I want. I want to die. You know?" Fuck, I sound SO lame but what have I got to lose right now by laying it all out on the table? Brian's held his ground till now-- if nothing else, what I have to say should push him off into the safe world of 'no Justin'. "I tried killing myself," I whisper. I feel his whole body tense. "The 'fast way', you know. After we talked about all that shit. I tried ...many times since we last were together weeks ago." Brian's eyes have narrowed further and now he looks... pained. "I tried- I really tried to slit my wrists!" Fuck, I sound like I'm begging Brian's forgiveness for NOT killing myself! "But I couldn't."

"Justin," he finally interjects. "DO NOT EVER 'TRY' AGAIN."

"But..."

"Justin, are you fucking *apologizing* to me for being unable to off yourself? Because if you are, you need to be tied up and left in a rubber room somewhere. Do you know how angry and... fuck it... well, how angry I'd be if you killed yourself?"

"It wouldn't have affected you. I'm no longer in your life..."

He sighs shaking his head slightly. "Where are you right now, moron?"

"I mean, I haven't been in your life for weeks. I truly meant to keep it that way. It's better for you – I'm dragging you down… And now I've put you in physical danger!"

He waves that last bit off. "This Andy thing? Put that on the back burner right now, ok? You can tell me about that later...

"Listen to me: You're giving yourself some enormous power there, Taylor. You affect me; but it's hard to drag a healthy person down."

"It's just- sometimes you seem to get a little... I seem to bring out dark feelings in you. Ones I can tell you don't like or let yourself think about... I don't want to do that."

"Christ, Justin, you're so literal-minded. Listen. Are you listening?"

I nod warily.

"I don't like talking like this- I *don't* talk like this. So listen now. LISTEN." Not that he didn't already have my undivided attention, but I find I'm practically holding my breath. "Yeah- shit you've been through and are going through brings out my demons a bit. I hate that. But. But, that wouldn't happen if they weren't there, would it? That's a no-brainer—right up your alley-" I snort. Fucker. "They're there, the demons. I've learned to cloak them with success, arrogance, money, looks that attract men and women alike for whatever reason, self-centeredness-- I've dressed my 'evil self' with ugly 'clothes'- but they're effective clothes: outwardly unpalatable for the most part, but still far better than the real me, the demons underneath. I rarely come face-to-face with the real me- the few times I have almost killed me. So I've avoided it. You're kind of like a dirty little man who likes to undress my demons. Sicko."

I chuckle despite the seriousness of what he's saying.

"You aren't 'dragging me down'. I don't get close to people for a reason, Justin. I think the core of that reason is oddly similar to yours, but mine's much more selfish. Like you, I don't trust.

"Also like you: you don't want to hurt me; *I* don't want to hurt me, either. I don't want to face... " he clears his throat and seems to rethink his choice of words. "I hate emotions. They're mushy, messy, saccharine, phony, painful and frankly, they tick me the fuck off. So I put'em down. Which is easy, because of all the reasons I just listed.

"You on the other hand have all those emotions in spades and let them out. You get all syrupy and gross and lovey and stupid--" I scoff although he's kind of right. "I mean, I don't think I was *ever* anywhere near as sappy as you--" Again I scoff. "--But I used to let myself feel more. Once or twice, when I was a dumb kid. Then… shit happened, kept happening…" he's vague but I get it, "and the demons set up house, killed off all the emotions they could, accepted the 'wolf in sheep's clothing' routine I gave them and here I am. I guess the long and short of it is that you aren't sucking me into some bizarre dark vortex, Justin. To honestly think you have that power over me is kind of silly- I've fucking wanted to die a million times," his voice gets a little hoarse and he clears his throat again. "I tried to make it happen 3 times, and I'm 38- an aging playboy. Mikey-- you've 'met' him although I don't think you were really aware of him-- he thinks I need to settle down. He's full of shit, wanting his schmaltzy suburban picket-fence ideals for me. That'll never happen. But I *am* getting old... oldER," he amends. "And what's worked for me in the past isn't quite as effective as it was before. Pretty soon, I won't be the 'Stud of Liberty Avenue' anymore."

He's gotten so quiet, I barely hear him. He's dead serious. Still, I bite my lip so I don't laugh outright- I can't help it. As much as my heart is breaking for him, he just doesn't get how he is- it's ageless: his hypnotic magnetism, raw sexuality, intense and complex beauty… it's daunting, actually. But I say nothing. It's both not the time, nor do I think his 'demons' need more of an ego boost. Let them feel this unwarranted but healthy dose of humility, y'know?

He hears my smothered laugh. "--Shut up. Fuck. I never talk shit like this and for some reason, I guess my stupidity overwhelmed my better judgment to give me a reminder why. What I've been babbling on about, trying to say, is you're like a 17-year-old 5-year-old *me*, if you can follow that. But hotter and nicely grown up. You don't need someone like me around you- it's not you affecting me. I'm an adult- you're a young man. What you don't need is me affecting YOU. I don't want you to end up like..." he stops himself; his voice is barely a whisper. "Forget it. Just never, ever try to kill yourself again- don't even think about it. You blind, brain-damaged, freakish twat," he adds.

Now I'm still. Silent and still. He's 'selfish' my ass. I'm not laughing, there are no gushy words, nothing outwardly fucked. Just inwardly. All those syrupy and gross and lovey and stupid emotions he called me on are simmering inside. They're trying to spill out my eyes but I hold them in. He looks at the ceiling and then closes his eyes. I study his face- ideal, beautiful, outwardly well-practiced to be hardened and blank. Practice makes perfect, but I know the vulnerability he's masking. I suck in a breath feeling like a cross between an elderly wise man in love and an adolescent with an unbearable, all-consuming crush. Before I know it I'm kissing him deeply, the fucking tears that had been trapped in the corners of my eyes splash down onto his now-open, surprised eyes and he blinks.

Then the most incredible feeling I've EVER experienced overwhelms me as he kisses back with a passion I never knew was possible. It's HIM. All of him. All. Of. Him. Pain, sadness, sorrow, confusion, lust, love, raw HIM. I can't believe my eyes are still open- his shut and he rises up and lies on top of me, the weight of his naked, pliant body covering me completely. His hands almost desperately, ALMOST clumsily paw and explore my body. His smooth, warm fingers caress and knead my muscles; my flesh willingly marked and claimed. When our lips part I'm gasping, his hungry mouth nips and bites and suckles sensuously down my body, saliva leaving hot trails on my skin, turning chill when his tongue, mouth leaves his mark and moves on. I'm shivering and realize I'm moaning and babbling his name. Oh, God... "Brian...." Yes.

He gently teases my nipples with his teeth and tongue; I arch my back involuntarily. I've been fucked by so many men- fucked so many- been raped, molested, used... and as much as I've wanted this with Brian, I've been frightened of it. Frightened because I knew I couldn't compartmentalize the experience like I always have. Until this moment, sex was about pain and bringing the man off. I've always treated the experience like a task...

I knew that wouldn't be possible with Brian. I was more than right- he's touching all of me. All. Of. Me. With all of him. But as frightened as I anticipated being, as I *should* be: I'm not.

My legs fall open wantonly as he kisses and mouths his way down my body; he tenderly nips the inside of my thighs, inhaling deeply as his face slowly nears my hard-as-steel cock; I hear a low, deep growl in his chest as his head fills with my scent. Some iota of self-consciousness flits through my head but is gone in an instant - I cry out, his tongue finally touching my leaking, nearly purple cock, the slightly rough flat of his tongue licking up my shaft a few times before he engulfs me, gently but firmly clamping his hot, wet mouth expertly around me. His eyes are closed, eyelids fluttering slightly; he's completely absorbed in the taste, feel, texture of my dick as I fuck his mouth. Uselessly I try to hold back at first so I don't gag him or scare him with my urgency- 'scare'- huh!; Brian? Within about one second that attempt at self control disappears and my hips buck as I thrust into his willing mouth. He doesn't try to hold me down; he takes it all.

I try to watch this, him, us- my dick almost violently sliding in and out past his full, coral lips but I can't help myself and my eyes close as the euphoria builds... "Hhgh... fuck... oh fuck... Brian!... I'm gonna... Briannn!..." Within seconds my world goes white and the pulsing rhythm of release throbs deliciously throughout my entire body; I keep thrusting slightly into his mouth, riding the shuddering waves of the most intense orgasm imaginable until what seems like hours later they calm into ripples, and then still into a puddle along with my completely blissed out, spent, sated body. He gently releases my cock from the warm confines of his mouth, having swallowed with relish what felt like gallons of my cum. My eyes have slitted open; he's looking up at my face from my crotch. He gives my penis a tender kiss and climbs up my body, eyes locked on mine. He doesn't smile, frown, roll his eyes, smirk- nothing. His expression is peaceful. Utterly peaceful. We kiss and I taste my seed on his tongue and hum.

Oh... God.

I've been with many, many men- with the 'job' (literally) of giving pleasure. Giving pleasure without thought of my own; men taking pleasure without thought of my own, as well- in fact all too often, their pleasure was taken by inflicting pain on me.

This is new. This. Has. Never. Happened.

I try to move, to say something- but my body has taken over my feeble, addled mind and I automatically respond only to Brian's languid touches. Somewhere in the mush I generously call a brain I remind myself that Brian hasn't gotten off; I haven't given him pleasure. Fuck, he just gave me more than 'pleasure'. He practically gave me an aneurysm. "Guuuhhh..." I blither stupidly. Hey, I'm *trying*.

He caresses my cheek, his face so close I can feel his warm breath on my skin. Our sweaty bodies are loosely tangled, the air around us is musky, heady, erotic. His cock is hot, hard against my belly- but it feels like it's slowly softening. I must quirk my eyebrows because he smiles a little shyly. Shyly? Brian?? "I have to change the sheets anyway. You got them a little muddy a few hours ago..."

Huhhhhh... "I... love you," I blurt. Great, one tiny iota of coherent brain capacity returns and what do I say? The worst thing possible. "I mean--" I backpedal desperately.

He doesn't lose his lazy smile as he kisses me. "Shhhhh. You're just in a post-orgasmic haze..."

Yes, I am. The ultimate in 'post-orgasmic hazes'. But in this haze, my brain couldn't fabricate ANYthing. I'm NOT spouting delirious nonsense. "N-no... I mean yes, I am... but..."

"Shhhh."

His cock only softens slightly and is quickly hard as a rock again, pushing into my hip. Shit, he's as horny as I am- which is saying a lot at the moment. Something has happened between us at this insanely early morning hour- my head fumbles and trips over the enormity of whatever it is. I don't know and my mind's too wired, weary and overwhelmed to even attempt to figure it out. I stretch out under Brian and simply give myself over to him completely.

Again and again.

And again.


	9. Chapter 9

  
Author's notes:

More about Brian's past; Justin's remarkable... self!; Gus... 

Thank you for reading! Updates will probably be 1X/2X a week now- reviews are encouraging and I'm very grateful for them!

* * *

Ooooookay. Justin's finally drifted off to sleep after I fucked him the seventh time (seventh!); his expression is… pure. It's kind of creepy- I don't think I've ever seen someone whose face was so truly happy, at peace and serene in my life. Even the few dead ones I've seen at viewings.

Frankly, it flips me the fuck out. And that doesn't happen to Brian Kinney- until this twat stumbled (literally) into my life. Let's be accurate here: *Justin* doesn't happen to Brian Kinney. Not the carefully constructed Brian Kinney OR the 'real' Brian Kinney. Blissed but freaked, my mind wanders dangerously.

Hell.

I've only truly- *truly*- faced the 'real' Brian Kinney once. Not the first time I tried to kill myself. Or the last. I faced him full-on the second time when my flatmate Ned found me. I don't want to think about that time. Pfft. What I want doesn't seem to make a difference anymore.

The first time I tried to kill myself I was scared, alone, beaten down and beaten up; I was a child trying to escape. Same in a way when Mikey found me: I was scared, feeling the death knells of the construct I'd built up- facing the fact that it couldn't last. I was 30, I was aging and I knew the raw magnetism I seemed to have couldn't possibly last- I felt it, knew it, believed it utterly. All that was worth living for in me was soon to dwindle away to nothing so I figured I'd take it away myself, kill myself before age could take it from me.

But still, I didn't dare face my demons again that time, at 30. As I said, I'd done that at 25. That was the second time I tried to end it.

I was so angry at Ned for finding me that time I barely talked to him for a month. And once I did talk to him, it was superficial and polite until we were able to completely sever our connection at the end of the semester. I never saw him again after that or tried to get in touch with him. While it's about thirteen years later and I ought to contact him, I suppose to 'thank' him for saving my life, I still wish he hadn't. He had no idea who he saved that night. He thought he saved his best friend, the guy who teased him and snarked at him but was there for him when his little sister was killed by a drunk driver 8 hours before her confirmation; the guy who stayed up with him many nights in a row after his girlfriend got an abortion two days after breaking up with him; the guy who introduced him to gay nightlife despite his reluctance- and who gloated when he had way more fun at Babylon than he'd ever had at the bazillion frat parties and straight stoner parties he'd gone to. WAY more fun, even though he was straight. (He was one of the very few breeders I truly liked.)

No, he didn't save *that* Brian Kinney- because that one's made up. Genuine, but still not the real me. He saved the real Brian Kinney: the sum of a million demons. Demons that had surfaced the night before while Ned was out. Surfaced in a chaotic maelstrom of morbid, sickening memories and feelings triggered by an unexpected visit from Jack. I still dunno what *really* tripped the wire. Him finding me fucking gorgeous twin soccer players may have had something to do with it. Now, I don't know why, but not only did Jack think me a strapping, handsome young ladykiller (he had zero evidence to prop up *that* delusion- except my close friendships with Lindsay and Daphne), by the time I was 25, he believed I was like he'd been as a 20-something: no one woman could ever satisfy me. He was right about there being no one woman—and about 'no one' man, as well, although he had no clue about that angle. Until that night. He literally went into cardiac arrest moments after seeing me with two men.

At 9AM the next morning I'd returned to the dorm room I shared with Ned after spending 10 nerve-fraying hours with Jack in the ER and then ICU; I'd returned to the flat and immediately swallowed a bottle of pills. Fuck, if only I'd had *two* bottles of Vicodin that morning, Ned still would've found me an hour after I got back from Mount Nittany Medical Centre - but it would have been too late. I'd've been dead.

I shiver, remembering the burning words my father hissed at me before he keeled over, before the 10-hour ordeal at the hospital. By that time I thought I'd heard it all: I shouldn't ever have been born; Jack should have cut off my head as soon as it emerged into the world (he sneered that he desperately wanted to at the time- but there were 'too many fucking doctors' around); I was a mistake, a burden, a waste of money and food (I don't know where that came from- Jack and Joanie barely even bought me clothing and VERY rarely fed me. Thank God for my bussing job at the diner, the terrible school cafeteria and my meeting the Novotny's at 14); I was satan; I was an abomination, etc., etc. All that shit 'hurt' when I was younger, I guess. I took it in, believed it even, but buried it over the years under the bright, shiny construct I developed. And in believing it all yet also burying it (what else could I have done? I've wondered at times), I 'gave birth' to the cast of demons that is the 'real' me.

But that Night of Jack and Soccer Twins, Pops basically reiterated all the old shit plus some choice bone-shattering bon mots about 'fucking fairies', etc.-- I expected that, of course-- but then he said he was glad I'd never have children.

Glad- *happy*- I would never be a father. Never have a child. Never 'reproduce'.

Not so shocking, eh? He said he was glad Claire was the Kinney to pass on the light and joy of the bloodline (my words- just be sure to understand the tone used is that of the deepest sarcasm possible). Claire (the wonderbitch) was pure, Jack said. He said I was so contaminated, so evil, so wrong that were I to have a child, that child would be death. Death. He cursed my non-existent kid-- his own non-existent grandchild- and said how ironically pleased he was that faggy Brian Kinney (not of course, *his son*) would never have a kid.

Y'know, again: it doesn't sound like much, does it? I mean, I would guess in comparison to everything else I'd been made to believe during my lifetime, it's not much of a stretch to damn any child I'd have simply because it was mine. Hell, I'm surprised I hadn't heard it before; I guess me possibly having a child hadn't really occurred to Jack. He always considered me to be just like him: not a family man because of my lust for the ladies. Not having kids for that reason was macho, manly, 'Kinney'. Then he found out I was a 'fairy' and not being a family man took on a whole new meaning: any life I brought into the world would be as sickening, evil, unnatural and heinous as me- it wouldn't be life, as I said before. That innocent child would be *death*.

So, yeah, just more hurtful words- but those words hit home. For some reason, they hit home and all the other shit beaten into me during my lifetime hit home all over again. Like the creatures in Night of the Living Dead, ALL the demons attacked that night. Old and new. They attacked me- fine- but they also knifed an innocent, unborn unknown. A never-even-considered person. That person years later, of course, turned out to be my only unconditional love: Gus.

A warm hand lands lightly on my shoulder. "What's going on?" Justin softly asks behind me. The pressure of his hand wavers as he attempts to keep steady. I now notice I've been standing here over an hour in the dark, staring blankly out the loft windows at the sleet. It's 4:00AM. I turn slightly to look at Justin. "You... um, you okay?" he asks hesitantly.

I shrug him off without a word and stalk over to the fridge for a bottle of water. Fuck, I'd like to pull out a bottle of Beam, but out of deference to my would-be gutter-bound ward, I won't.

"Brian...?" Out of the corner of my eye I see him take a small step towards me and then stop, seemingly afraid to come closer. He reaches back and tries to be subtle as he supports himself by gripping the windowsill.

I sigh. "Nothing's going on that isn't just a rerun in my brain. I'm okay," I lie.

He nods slightly, obviously unconvinced. He looks concerned and confused. "Want uh..." he notes my water and pauses. "Want something to eat?"

"Justin, I'm fine. I have no food anyway."

Now he releases his grip on the sill and wobbles slightly as he bravely walks to me. Instinctively I hold out my hand to help him as he nears. He grabs it gratefully and I slowly lead him back to the sofa; I wince when he trips a few times but I don't say anything. We sink into the cushions and he boldly cups the back of my neck, tenderly drawing me down to lay on his lap. "Brian," he whispers, carding his fingers through my hair, "whoever you think is the 'real' Brian Kinney, isn't, you know."

I tense. Do I broadcast my thoughts on a Justin-only wavelength?

"I don't know what's in your head, obviously. I don't know who you think you really are. I think I have a good idea though. And it's fucked."

I snort. He ignores me. Surprise, surprise.

"I get the sense that you believe the core Brian Kinney is so awful, so poisonous that he should never be 'allowed out'. I may be dead wrong, but I think you believe the man we all see is a carefully constructed trick of mirrors and the real man you think you're masking is the devil himself. You even said something like how the Brian you show everyone is outwardly 'unpalatable' or something, but it's not as genuinely evil as the real you underneath. That's total, complete crap. The real you is the man we all see, Brian- or at least the one *I* see. You may think you hide him but you don't. You can't. Whatever your family or whoever drilled into you about yourself is bullshit. Utter bullshit. The only thing 'wrong' about you is your ability to instinctively know where my ticklish spots are." I chuckle a little, although what he's saying makes me want to scream. Throw shit, break shit, stomp shit- and scream. "The terrible things you believe about yourself aren't you or in you," he continues softly. I wish he'd shut the hell up. "It's amazing really. You're amazing. Pfft- I can't put anything into words anymore. I'm not saying this right. And certainly not in a way you'll hear or listen to without wanting to knock me senseless." Fuck, the only reason I haven't knocked him senseless and thrown this obvious bad-judge-of-character out on his ass is because OF his ass.

Well.

Well, okay. And he went through similar shit himself growing up. Not the same but he's not talking out of his ass. He's not talking from a textbook or sense of pity. He's tasted horror- horror that's all the more acridly bitter when experienced as a kid.

"I just wish you knew that the real Brian isn't the sum of a million demons personified." I thought that, didn't I? I mean, I didn't say anything like this shit out loud, did I? But he's using MY words; it's creepy. "The REAL Brian is the one who without thought reaches out to steady me when I waver, who doesn't put up with my bullshit, who comforts me in a backhanded way when I've had a seizure, who drives in the middle of the night into a crack neighborhood to save my ass when I'm delusional, sick and wasted, who—" he looks at my expression and sighs. "Shit I can go on and on but I don't think you'll listen. You're stupid that way."

Huh.

"You never lived up to what your family told you you were. Thank God. In trying to cover up the Brian you were made to believe in, you ended up becoming *Brian*: a blindingly beautiful, insightful, self-created, narcissistic ass."

I can't help but let out a humorless laugh. This freak is SO wrong.

He frowns. "Fuck.

"I can't say this right...." he repeats in a whisper; his voice tapers off on a frustrated note.

"No. You can't," I agree acerbically. "Because you can't see or think straight... you're brain-damaged." Ouch. Even for me, that was low—I look at him quickly to see his reaction and it flashes from shocked anger to… I don't know, understanding or something when he sees that came out more harshly and callously than I'd intended. "Justin, honestly, you sound like a hybrid between a self-help book and a terrible sham psychic."

Then, fuck me: Despite my quiet but blunt words, I turn my head and bury my face in his lap. He just doesn't know the truth. He's obviously right that there's more to me than meets the eye. He's obviously wrong to think the real me is 'blindingly beautiful, insightful, and self-created'. Pfft. What a pie-in-the-sky little chump. No, what doesn't meet the eye is the medusa inside.

"Nnngh..." I manage to say, ever the clever devil.

Justin just breathes out a shallow laugh and continues fingering my hair. "Brian, I walk and talk like a drunk three sheets to the wind, I write worse than a three year old, I have brain-damage as you just needlessly reminded me, seizures and a million other things wrong with me, many caused by my own stupidity-- but I feel certain about this. I do. I don't feel certain about anything, really- that's why I concede I might be dead wrong here. But I *do feel* certain about this. I saw into your whole soul a few hours ago, when you made lo-- fucked me. I saw all of you; and it wasn't frightening, horrifying or mortifying at ALL, Brian. It was... it was beautiful. Even you couldn't fake, construct or be that intense without it being real. Even you aren't that good an actor. Even I'm not that much of a fool."

My cell rings. Phew. Thank God. Wait: It's fucking 4:30AM. "Let it ring," Justin mumbles under his breath.

"N-no..." I stammer, trying to gather my wits. It has to be Lindsay- Gus...! I get up in a flash and grab the phone. "What!!!?" I sound more panicked than I want to- I sound like I feel.

*"Brian!"

Shit. "Lindsay, what? Gus!" I can't string together a coherent anything at the moment.

She's in a panic herself. *"He's gone!!" she manages, the hysteria in her voice is unmistakable.

I grab my coat and keys and race out the door. "Where are you? What happened?" Before I know it, I'm fumbling with my keys, my hands are shaking so bad that I can't get the fucking car started. I curse and finally the Jeep roars into life; I nearly fly out of the garage and suddenly realize I'm not alone-- Justin must've been on my heels and is nervously buckling himself into the seat beside me as I speed towards Lindsay's.

*"I'm h--h--home..." she sobs through the phone.

"I'm on my way right now. What happened?" I repeat, coating my panic with numb practicality. I have to keep myself together right now.

*"He's gone..."

"WHAT. HAPPENED...!?" I ask yet again.

*"He's g-g-gone... th- the mannn.... took hi- him..."

"Lindsay, WHAT MAN? WHAT THE ***FUCK*** HAPPENED??"

*"G-g--gone..."

Shit!! This is useless. I flip the phone closed as I pull up to the munchers' house, tires squealing. The front door is wide open; I leap up the front steps 5 at a time. Lindsay is in the front hall, one side of her face is bruised and blood is trickling down her cheek from a deep gash on her temple. She's crouched with her back against the side of the stairs, clutching the phone, her knuckles white, her face streaked with tears, her eyes so wide and terrified I'm struck speechless for a split second. She doesn't notice me.

*"B-Brian....? Ohh... please Brian, don't hang up..." she says into the receiver.

"Lindsay!" I bark, startling her; instantly her dilated eyes dart to my face. "What the fuck is GOING ON?!!??"

She moves her mouth soundlessly. Her eyes flit to something behind me; it's then I remember Justin. He's hurried up right next to me. "Who-o-o...?" she rasps.

"LINDSAY!!" I'm about to shake the shit out of her if she doesn't talk.

Her eyes waver and come back to mine. She still says nothing, her mouth gawping like a fish out of water.

"Lindsay?" Justin says urgently, nervously. "I'm Justin... a close... a friend... of Brian's. Lindsay, there was a man? He hit you?"

"Gus," she babbles still staring at me in terror- now I'm 2 seconds from slapping her hard to snap her out of it.

Justin looks at me panicked. "Brian, who's Gus?"

"My son," I hiss. Justin sucks in a breath.

"Lindsay, the man took Gus…? Please," he says hurriedly, not waiting for her to answer his incomplete question, "please- what did the man look like?"

Her gaze wanders back to Justin- too slowly. She's in complete shock, still holding the phone in a death grip. * B-Brian...?" she whispers into the receiver.

"LINDSAY, SNAP OUT OF IT!! WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED? WHERE'S GUS?" Nothing. I rush into the kitchen and put some ice into a dishcloth. I race back, kneel down next to her, put it against her swollen face and gently brush the tears from her cheeks. The fear in my gut is like molten lava. "Lindsay, please..." I beg.

"Young. Young. Boy. High. Tweaked. He was crazy. He said to t-tell the 'gor'--" she hiccups slightly. "He said t-to...tell... the 'gorgeous sug-- sugar daddy'..." she lets out a whimper. "To tell *you*, Bri…an, t-to t-t-tell sssomeone h-h-he called 'Justin'--" her eyes fly over to Justin, making the connection- I look over too. He looks utterly terrified.

"Lindsay!!" Her eyes turn to me again. "WHAT!!?"

She looks at me in horror. "Brian!" She seems to have suddenly 'come to'. "Brian! This is your fault!! Who is this---"

"Lindsay, later! Where IS GUS!!? What happened???"

She hisses, glancing with sheer hatred and fear at Justin. "The boy- he said to tell YOU- this hot sugar daddy- to tell 'Justin' to get his 'ass' back to work!! He had a... big... a big aluminum bat... and he hit me... everything went black..." she starts sobbing again. "Brian, please do something! I woke up and Gus was GONE!! I called you right away- but I was knocked out at least an hour!!! He could be anywhere!"

"No..." Justin whispers. "Not anywhere..."

"JUSTIN!!" He's in some other world. "WHERE?"

Justin looks at me desperately, anguished tears in his eyes.

"JUSTIN!!!"

His eyes suddenly roll back in their sockets and he collapses; he starts twitching uncontrollably. SHITSHITSHIT.

"Brian! What's happening?" I hear Lindsay gasp.

"Lindsay, give me the dish rag!!" She dumps the ice onto the hardwood floor and thrusts the rag at me; I vaguely notice her panicked, confounded expression.

"MAKE THAT SHITHEAD TALK! HE KNOWS WHERE OUR SON IS!" she shrieks a second later. I ignore her and quickly go to hold Justin's head in my lap and carefully fold the cloth into his mouth to protect him from biting his tongue.

"Fuckshitgoddamfuckshit..." I breathe oaths in a hushed litany as I tend to Justin, knowing 1., he knows who has Gus and where my son is, 2., he can't help that he's seizing and can't tell me what he knows while he is, and 3., until the shit who has Gus (Andy, I just KNOW it- or one of his boytoy lackies) gets what he wants or is caught, Gus won't be hurt. He'll be terrified, yes- and that stabs me in my heart like a thousand knives - but physically, he'll be alright.

To get Gus home safe, Justin has to be okay. And Gus is all I can think about right now. Gus and Justin. It's been maybe 10 seconds that seem a lifetime, me cradling Justin's head, his body wracked with jerking spasms and froth spilling past the thin rag down his cheeks; a wet stain grows at his groin. Lindsay is all over me, slapping my shoulders and face in a rage- "WAKE HIM UP! THAT SHIT HAS GUS!"

"Lindsay," I say as calmly as I can as I fend her off, "No, he doesn't. He has a good idea where to find him. Lindsay, stop it!" I grab her wrist before her hand can connect again with my shoulder. "Lindsay! He's having a seizu--"

"I DON'T FUCKING CARE! WAKE HIM UP!! WHO IS THIS LOWLIFE? HOW DO YOU KNOW THIS SHIT? FUCK, YOU BROUGHT HIM HERE! HE'S RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS! *YOU'RE* RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS!" She wrenches her arm from my grasp and turns her attention towards Justin and starts hitting him. "YOU FUCK! WAKE THE HELL UP!" she screams.

"LINDSAY! STOP IT!" I yell, trying to grab her arms again to restrain her but she evades me. I hunker over Justin's helpless, twitching body to protect him from her blows. "LINDSAY!" I finally scream. She collapses and wails out a helpless sob.

"Brian, oh, Brian... save Gus..." she pleads through her fingers, head in her hands.

"Shhhhhh.... Lindsay, I will. I will," I promise desperately. "I will..." I whisper again, holding Justin's head gently, praying once again to no one, to every one, that Justin will pull out of his seizure safely and tell me where to find my son. "No..." I mutter. "No." I'm not just gonna wait for Justin to wake. "Lindsay, go start the Jeep," I hand her the keys hurriedly. "Now!" I pick up Justin and rush outside. "NOW!" I yell over my shoulder and she runs past me, slamming the door. She gets in the car and starts it, grinding the gears. I quickly follow, holding Justin as gently as I can as I get into the back seat. "Go to Tremont- the other side of town-- GO. NOW!" Fuck. I'm quietly glad Mel's moved away to Canada- I can barely hold it together with just Linds.

She peals out, crying and confused. I know approximately where Justin saw Andy last night-- at least, I know where I found Justin, and it can't be that far from Andy's abandoned crack and whore house. And that's where Gus is, most likely. If we can't find the shithole ourselves, we'll be in the right neighborhood within a half hour and Justin will HOPEFULLY come out of his seizure by then.

I hold Justin, trying to keep it together, rocking him and directing Lindsay where to go even though it's a straight shot down my street- just clear across town. She's crying so hard she can hardly shift gears and I vaguely worry that she'll break the cogs on the gears as she grinds them with every shift. Right now, I could care less if the car is destroyed- so long as we get there. "Faster, Lindsay!" I whisper urgently. She's trying, I realize that- it's just that every second my son isn't safe in my arms is one too many.

We fly through stop signs and red lights; I'm thankful it's the wee hours before dawn and the cops aren't lurking at every corner waiting for traffic violators. The sleet has gotten heavier and the roads are fucking slick- but Lindsay hardly seems to notice, slipping and skidding on icy patches in her nearly blind race. I don't give a shit about skidding all over town- again, so long as we get there-- nothing matters now but my child.

Clasping Justin's head gently, I worry as his small body jerks and weak, gaspy, strangled sounds gurgle from his throat- no wonder he wakes up from these episodes in a total daze. He's breathing erratically and his spasmodic motions must be completely exhausting- let alone the electrical chaos I know is sizzling his brain under the surface. I continue rocking him softly and huddle over him, whispering his name and begging (yes, begging) him to wake, to tell me where to find my boy. I whisper as I watch the neighborhoods blur by, neon bar signs and dim nighttime store lights fractured by the hailing ice. The houses get seedier and seedier the closer we get to where I believe Andy is. Andy- and Gus. 


	10. Chapter 10

  
Author's notes: Different perspective.  Thanks for reading!!  Lemme know what you think!   


* * *

Okay, I'm in an utter rage, seething at Brian and whoever this derelict is he has somehow introduced into Gus' life- into all our lives! I'm blazing through lights and stop signs, speeding down Tremont to some apparently awful side of town I've never even seen before; the car slips and slides on the icy road but I sure as fuck don't care and I know that right now, Brian's only thoughts are on our son and his safety. Brian's in the backseat with this lowlife 'Justin', who's having some kind of fucking seizure- this *lowlife* who apparently believes he knows where Gus is but who can't tell us at the moment. Brian's only priority is Gus, but in the back of my mind, I've noticed through my fear and anger how he seems to really care about this young man. This blond, timid little freak who knows where Gus is because he's the one who brought whoever my child's kidnapper is into our world. And whoever this kidnapper is wants to get to this 'Justin' asshole through my son's Daddy. The kidnapper may or may not be right in thinking that getting to Brian will make this young man comply with his wishes, but regardless, the psycho picked the one way to INSTANTLY get to Brian: Gus. The *one* surefire way. As we careen down the dark, slippery asphalt I try to stay on the road as I peer ahead, wipers madly swiping the sleet from the windshield. I can't control the tears as they spill from my eyes.  
  
"Lindsay!" Brian gets my attention from the back seat. "Up here- slow down when we get to that payphone. Gus is very likely nearby... this is where I picked Justin up earlier; he'd just run from where Gus probably is now. Justin can't walk well so he probably couldn't get very far from his dealer/pimp's crashpad..."  
  
Drugs. Prostitution. Crippled. Pimped out. These adjectives don't fit who I see Brian picking up, trick-wise. Brian's not into tweaked out chickens (drugs are okay- drug addiction is not), he doesn't pay for sex (doesn't have to), or help the disabled (he has a big heart, but outward displays of charity aren't his shtick- it would mar his asshole facade). So something's weird here but I push this oddity into the back of my mind to ponder later, after my son is back safe at home. At the payphone, I slow to a crawl at Brian's demand, looking as hard as I can into the shadows of the pre-dawn darkness for any sign of my child, any sign of that creature who knocked me out before taking our beautiful boy, any sign of life at all. The streets are still, silent, utterly deserted, the only movement and noise comes from the now torrential sleet that clatters and pings against the windshield and roof, and the whining, rhythmic thwacking of the wipers.  
  
I'm inching along, sniffling, distraught, stopping myself several times from hitting lampposts at 3MPH since my eyes are hardly watching the road. I'm startled by a soft voice in the back; Brian's.  
  
"Justin, Justin..." Brian whispers. I glance back and Justin's eyes are hazy but he's trying to focus on Brian; he's not seizing anymore.  
  
"WHERE'S MY SON?" I hear myself screech; it's like I have no control over my voice. I slam on the brakes and even though we're only in the single digits on the speedometer, the car lurches and we all jerk forward before settling back. "WHERE IS MY CHILD, YOU CRACKWHORE!?"  
  
Brian's mouth has dropped and he's staring at me incredulously, no doubt shocked at my vehemence, language, lack of kind understanding, whatever--- in any other circumstance, I'd be laughing my ass off at his expression-- but not right now. GUS.  
  
Justin seems to hear me, but only barely. His heavy lidded eyes blink several times, still gazing a bit bewildered at Brian; a few seconds after my shrill 'questions', his eyes wander slowly, uncertainly to mine. He blinks more, trying to register where he is, who we are, why he's here, what's going on, etc. At least, his expression seems an open book and that's how I read him.  
  
"Brian...?" he rasps hoarsely.  
  
Fuck this SHIT. "WHERE. IS. MY. SON? YOU LOSER-DERELICT-ASSHOLE, **TELL ME**!"  
  
Brian and Justin both flinch at my screaming- 45 minutes ago I could hardly function at all. All I could see in my brain was GUS and BRIAN and PANIC... now all is bile in my throat; fury, sheer terror and an all-consuming need to have Gus in my arms burn in every fiber of my being- all else be damned! "Lindsay, park," Brian says, his voice commanding, in control, calm. I know him and I know he's in Kinney Cope Mode- inside, he's as freaked out as I am. But thank God he's got his wits about him; I decidedly do not. All I know is that I need Gus. And I need Brian's strength. "Lindsay!" He snaps my attention back and I jerk the car forward before slowing to a stop again at the curb.  
  
Throwing the Jeep in neutral and yanking up the parking brake violently, I whip around to fully face the back seat. "TALK, YOU LITTLE SHIT, OR I'LL SLICE YOUR BALLS OFF AND SHOVE THEM UP YOUR CRIPPLED ASS!" I threaten, surprising even myself. Justin cringes deeper into Brian's arms, obviously becoming more and more aware and alert of what's happening. "TALK! WHERE IS HE!?" I shriek again.  
  
He whimpers and Brian glares at me, no longer shocked- now furious. "Lindsay, shut up! Fuck! You aren't helping to get Gus! Stop blaming Justin!- he didn't kidnap Gus!- be grateful he's here to help us find him! I'm sorry but we *have* to give him a few minutes at least to fully wake up- he's always disoriented and lost after a seizure- Lindsay, he's not doing this on purpose!" Brian sounds solid; angry but together- yet I know he's absolutely desperate to find our boy, desperate for Justin to fully wake.  
  
"GRATEFUL!? HE'S THE REASON MY CHILD ISN'T AT HOME SLEEPING WITH HIS TEDDY BEAR! GUS IS IN DANGER BECAUSE OF THIS ASSHOLE!" Fuck, I start sobbing and blubbering all over again.  
  
Brian sucks in a breath. "I know," he admits. "But you aren't helping..."  
  
"Brian..."  
  
"Justin, it's Andy, isn't it...?" Not a question, really. Justin nods. "Where... where do you think Gus is? Please, Justin..." Brian quietly pleads. "My son..."  
  
Justin swallows with effort, his lips so dry they're cracking. "Gaylord..."  
  
"What? What's Gaylord?"  
  
"Street... up... 3- maybe 4 blocks," the boy rasps.  
  
That's all I need at the moment and everyone and thing in the Jeep is thrown back as I squeal away from the curb and down the block. The men are murmuring to each other in the back seat- Brian's tone is oddly, *infuriatingly* caring and while I have no idea or interest in what they're saying, my rage is now also directed at Brian. How dare he? How DARE he practically coddle this deviant who's responsible for putting my child - his child- OUR child- in such danger! I hiss under my breath.  
  
"LINDSAY!" Brian yells from behind me, again snapping me back into the 'now'- and I stomp on the brakes just before slamming into a poorly parked car- and just before I hear a crack and all goes white.  
  



	11. Sorry's Bullshit

  
Author's notes: Dramadramadrama. More drama. I don't know if you all will like this (no major character death, don't worry); I really don't know. But please be kind in how you word any criticism =}  


* * *

Shitshitshitshitshit... my eyes open after the jolt and immediately I look down; Justin looks up from my lap, terrified but uninjured. We collided into some car that was parked practically in the middle of the road- we were only going about 10 MPH but it was a shock. He struggles and sits up, having mostly recovered from his seizure now- I don't have time to tend to him though. "Justin-" I hate the sound of desperation and panic in my voice.  
  
"Brian- it's that 'house' right there- you're fast, you're steady- at this hour, everyone in there should be fried. Still: be CAREFUL. I'll stay with Lindsay and find her cell to call for help- GO!!"  
  
I curse, briefly padding my pockets for my cell but I must have dropped it sometime during this hellish drama. Lindsay is slumped over the steering wheel having cracked her head with her sudden stop; she's mumbling, so she's going to be okay-- for the moment. She has to get to an ER soon- I wish Justin could drive! Still, I nod and without another word, I dash out of the car leaving Justin to tend to her- I have GOT to get Gus-- NOW.  
  
I must hit light speed because next thing I know I'm in a room of emaciated, tweaked out junkies, all sitting on grimy mattresses and/or propped against stained walls; the only light is a flickering, dwindling emergency candle in the middle of the room tilting almost as listlessly as the wasted kids around me. I look around wildly, having no idea what this fucker 'Andy' even looks like. Everyone looks to be teens or younger, although they look haggard, like famine victims, and completely unaware of who they are, where they are, *if* they are. It's unnerving- I thought I'd seen it all 'til now.  
  
I barely register my observations as my eyes madly scan the dim room.  
  
"Why, it's Briiiiiannnnn!!!" a slurred, mocking, drunken/drugged voice exclaims; my head whips to the far right and some used-up greasy, trashed, acne-covered stick figure is standing- swaying- with a big, ugly, yellow and sloppy grin on his face, waving a quarter-full bottle of MD/20 at me. "You!! Blond whore boy's sug..." he hiccups,"...sugardaddy! Blo- blond boy ass' sug-sugardaddy and little boy pretty's REAL Daddy!!" He cackles an inebriated laugh and takes a swig from the bottle. "How they hangin', handsome? You're such a studly man's man, dude—but yer son's…" he hiccups again, "yer son's a fucking crybaby!!! Gus, ai-*hic*- ain't it?"  
  
Needless to say, I'm already right in his face and it takes every shred of my being to keep from ripping him apart in the most bloody, brutal way possible. He has my son- He has my son- He has my son- I keep repeating this in my head. I finally gather a few coherent brain cells; "WHERE. IS. MY. SON," I hiss between clenched teeth. My face is maybe an inch from his; I nearly gag from the nearness of him, the stench of booze, BO, cum and filth fills my nostrils; his warm, acrid breath almost knocks me back.  
  
"Ooooooo!" he giggles. "Beautiful Papa wants his widdle wimpy baby!!!" I swear as soon as I have Gus safe, I'm going to flatten this shit into a mangled puddle of blood, bone chips and sinew. "No way, Stud!! Not 'til blondie comes back for a looooot of fucking up his tight little hole fer- *hic*- fer the big bucks!! I bet you pay him good! He's a fantastic lay- johns *hic*- johns ask for him all the time!! He's a pain slut!"  
  
"** WHERE IS GUS, YOU SICK BASTARD**!?" My hands come up and grab his twig of a neck. I begin to squeeze. "WHERE??" Out of the corner of my eye, I notice some young, tweaked dipshit struggling to stand- presumably to protect his pimp and 'lover' from big bad ol'me- it'd be laughable if I weren't about to commit multiple homicides; the boy can't be more than 13, nor can he properly get to his feet.  
  
"H-hey!" he protests drunkenly. "Le-leave him alone!!" He staggers to me to push me away but it's futile. I vaguely feel like I'm in some bad action comedy as I, without taking my eyes from 'Andy', push the boytoy over with one arm. He falls against the wall and howls out a curse - or tries to.  
  
Andy's attention now is totally centered on me- and he's no longer looking so damned smug. "TELL ME NOW!!" I seethe, squeezing his airway nearly shut. He tries to clear his throat but can't; he tries to breathe but can't; he tries to scream but can't. His face turns ashen, his acne becoming a firey red against his now pasty-white skin.  
  
"Pl--" he chokes, his wide, blood-shot eyes nearly popping out of his head. "I'll t-tell y-you...where..." he strangles out.  
  
"Hands off!!" a low voice growls from behind; keeping my hands around stick-shit's neck, I look around and am almost floored: Sap is standing there with a bat, ready to swing. I should've guessed that slimeball would have a hand in this boy-whore ring. "Let him go, Kinney, or I'll bash your skull in and I'll have your son AND blondie. He's just out in your car, right?" He pauses, apparently considering the truth of what he's just said- I can tell this hadn't occurred to him until this moment. He's never been the sharpest tool in the shed. "Huh. A lot of my johns are likin'em nice and young like Gus-! One of Justin's big selling points is his barely adolescent looks, his innocent baby blues. Gus doesn't look young for his age- he doesn't have to! He's fucking three! Lotsa clients pay mega bucks for that."  
  
I retch- stupid, fucking me: I retch, I'm so horrified, scared, repulsed, disgusted.... twiggie sees my distraction and he knocks my hands away from his throat, coughing and spluttering as air fills his lungs.  
  
Sap starts laughing sinisterly and takes a step towards me; I'm at a serious disadvantage. "...N-no...." Fuck, that's my weak voice.  
  
"I like this. I like this a LOT. You have no power, Kinney!! You've always had all the power- your fucking looks, your business, your weird asshole reputation covering up that STUPID, CREEPY 'decent' soul you don't want anyone to see! HA! You skanky do-gooder shithead whore! Well, you've messed up MY life for the last time, fucker!" He laughs again and raises the bat, eyes glinting in the flickering candlelight. "Goodbye, you arrogant, high-and-mighty bastard," he hisses gleefully and the bat blurs toward me; I raise my arm to protect my head and a shattering pain crashes through me as my arm is smashed into pieces by the blow. I cry out. All I can think is that I've got to live. Ironically, as many times as I've wished I were dead and gone, now all my will is yearning to live.... mysonmysonmysonmysonmyGUS.... that's all I think in the midst of the haze of agonizing pain. I vaguely realize Sap's raising the bat again to finish me off...  
  
I cringe, hardly able to move- I hold my shattered arm out again to protect my head from the blow that's going to finish me off and I hear a deafening thwack followed by a moan and a thud- but it's not from me. The inevitable blow doesn't come. I open one eye, trying to ignore the searing pain emanating from my pulverized arm.  
  
And I see Justin.  
  
Justin. Standing unsteadily in the blinking candlelight, crowbar in his grasp. It's lowered in front of him, his stance is frozen after having dealt a possibly lethal blow to Sap, who is now crumpled on the floor at my feet. Justin's eyes are wide, filled with tears, staring in shock at the battered body in front of him. The only noises audible to my ears are his shallow, rapid breaths, my agonized pants and the whimpering of the nearly-forgotten Andy behind me. Then the crowbar clangs to the floor and there's a high, quiet keening coming from inside Justin's throat before he collapses. "Justin!" Holding my throbbing arm out from my body, I crawl to him and he clings to me carefully.  
  
I kiss the top of Justin's head, terrified and ecstatic simultaneously. Gus. I need Gus. Gus!! And Lindsay... is Lindsay okay? "Gus! Lindsay--" I mumble. Then from far away, I hear a faint wailing-- "GUS!!" I yell. Justin looks up and then towards the crying.  
  
"Stay here!" he whispers through his quiet sobs. "I know where he is!" He staggers to his feet, wavering more than ever- I wish to God I could help him. Like Quasimodo, he lopes to a creaky, hardly-used door; Gus' cries get louder as soon as he opens it. "Lindsay's okay," he says brokenly over his shoulder before he disappears through the door. I realize I'm crying as hard as he is; not from the nearly unbearable pain of my crushed bones, but from having just faced the unthinkable. Losing Gus. Losing Gus- Gus suffering. Losing him! Losing Gus- losing Justin- losing Lindsay. Losing *my* life means losing my son, Justin, Lindsay… Mikey, Emmett, Debbie, Vic... fuck, even Theodore... Mel... well, nevermind. She's not in the country anyway.  
  
Hhhuh. It may be that I'm not so ready to lose me, I realize. If nothing else, I may not care about losing ME but I *do* care about losing... some of the people in my life. And losing my life means I lose them. Selfish, I know. Selfish. Selfish because it IS selfish on its face- and because it's not *me* they have feelings for. It's the me Justin ignorantly believes is the real me. The now-infamous construct.  
  
I squeeze my eyes shut to keep from blacking out from pain; I'm only barely aware of the junkies littering the floor like piles of bones, not at all cognizant of what's been happening around them. Even stickboy Andy has passed out next to his fucktoy now.  
  
It takes an unbelievable amount to concentration and effort to not shake from my sobs- any motion causes splitting agony to my pulverized arm. I hear Gus' cries getting closer and I open my eyes to see Justin wobbling towards me with my son in his arms. He's biting his lip, trying so hard to be steady and not drop my boy; my heart aches and (fuck) reaches out to him.  
  
"LAMBSKIN!!!" Lindsay yells from the doorway and we all turn to look at her, her face black and blue from being hit when Gus was taken and just recently from knocking her head against the steering wheel. She's loopy, but okay and she rushes over to Sunshine and snatches Gus from his arms. Justin crumples to the floor in exhaustion. "Lambskin! Baby!!" She litters Gus' beautiful, chubby cheeks with kisses; he can't stop crying.  
  
"Daddy!!!" he wails, seeing me on the floor in agony.  
  
"Shhhhh... Gus, Sonny Boy, it's okay- go with Mommy... Lindsay, get him out of here! Get him OUT OF THIS HOLE. Call 911!!" I guess Justin couldn't find her cell.  
  
"My cell's gone!"  
  
"Christ, Lindsay!! Then get him and yourself to the ER! NOW!!"  
  
Lindsay looks at me desperately. "You're hurt!!"  
  
For FUCK'S SAKE!! I nod slightly. "Just get to the hospital; when you get there, have an ambulance come here! We're at..." I look at Justin, who's looking at me guiltily, sadly, longingly, anxiously...  
  
"413 Gaylord," he whispers.  
  
"Tell them to come to 413 Gaylord. GO!!"  
  
She races out, clutching my bawling, scared son. Justin pushes himself along the filthy, needle-ridden floor, avoiding the fucking things as carefully as he can, dragging himself using his good arm and his casted arm; his legs seem to be very weak. Tears streak his face and when he gets close he buries his head in my lap. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." he chants desperately, brokenly. I rest my unhurt arm on his back and lean against him gently, wincing in pain.  
  
Sorry's bullshit.  
  



	12. Chapter 12

  
Author's notes: I've struggled a bit with this and the next few chapters-- I hope it's fine. Also, I don't have a "beta" so I apologize for all mistakes! :) Thanks for reading and for the reviews!!   


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Brian's laying on the sofa- silent, brooding, unapproachable. It's been two days since we rescued Gus- the child was traumatized, but physically unharmed- a miracle in a way. Still, Brian has hardly spoken since he got out of the hospital; his arm is in a cast to his shoulder and he has two pins in his elbow... his cast is much more a handicap than mine is. Again, he's hardly spoken, hardly moved or eaten. Needless to say, he hasn't gone to work. Being the boss, he's lucky he doesn't have to- he has all the time he needs to recover. But I don't think he's using this time for that purpose. He's blaming himself. 

This whole fiasco is so far from his fault, I have a very difficult time figuring out how his brain is able to logically conclude that it is. But I don't think it's logical.

Me, on the other hand-- I'm so wracked with guilt, with shame, with fear, with self-loathing, I can barely look him in the eye- or ANYone in the eye. Gus was kidnapped because of me. I killed a man; Sap is dead. Andy's in jail. Those are just the more glaring highlights. Believe me, if I thought about it I could come up with a list of shit I've caused that's longer than my arm.

Brian dealt with ALL that shit-- well, the kidnapping and killing nightmare at least-- while in hospital. *Snap*- just like that, (I know better, but the man's not very forthcoming with details at the moment). But the kidnapping's "resolved" and even Lindsay apparently would rather it be a "non-event" than dredge it through the legal system. The brain behind the whole thing is dead (Sap), and furthermore, his death is being labeled justifiable homicide. The major player in the scheme (Andy) is in jail.

The worst of it appears to be over just about as quickly as it began.

I sigh. Fuck. Wow. Me, the unassuming, blond, diminutive twat (Brian's words, but spoken with affection)—*ME*, Justin Taylor: A killer. You'd think that'd be what's got me in a tailspin, but that's only a small part of it. It's Gus. It's Brian. It's what I'm responsible for in connection with them. But killing Sapperstein? I think I'd do what I did all over again if I had to; he was going to kill Brian. And Sap's nephew, Andy: Well, Andy's on his fucking own. He's a sadistic, weak-minded, fucked-up freak who quite happily worked as Sap's middle man, pimping me and others out, keeping us tweaked and even raping us as he pleased. As I mentioned, Sap was his uncle and in that sinister underbelly of Pittsburgh, he held a LOT of power; so his nephew did as well, by association. In short, I loathe Andy and hope he rots in prison. Overall, being a murderer and basically a narc doesn't bother me much at all. Go figure.

As always lately, my thoughts gravitate back to Brian. He won't let me go back to the center; he hasn't told the caseworkers there about my seizures or suicidal thoughts, but he won't leave me alone either. I think he believes that if he's around, I won't off myself.

I've teetered on the brink. But in a way, if that IS what he believes, he's right. I can't kill myself- hell, even without him sharing my physical space those weeks I spent back at the center after leaving the loft, he kept me from doing that without even knowing it. And now, it's just not possible for me to kill myself; I can't do that to him... He needs me alive. As malignant as I believe my presence is to Brian, somehow I know it would have a huge affect on him if I killed myself. His demons would attack full force. I have no idea why I'm so sure of that-- and I may be dead wrong. But frankly, I'd rather be dead wrong than dead-- and have that hurt Brian. Leaving him? That solution didn't work when I tried it before. Plus, it's selfish, but it feels like living without him would be like living without color.

I sit at the dining room table sketching. Well, I have a pad and charcoal and a half completed 'drawing' of Brian (more like a child's scrawling)... but I'm just looking at him now. He's in another world, staring at the ceiling but not seeing; his eyes are haunted, turned inward. Hhhhuh! Fuck this. He may be "silent, brooding and unapproachable," but I can't take this anymore. It's been TWO days. I go over to him, walking quietly to the sofa. Inadvertently, I curse under my breath as I stumble; he hears me and his eyes snap from the ceiling to watch my approach. He frowns.   


"Enough!" I say simply, sitting on the sofa's edge beside him. I finger his cast, avoiding his eyes as is my norm of late. "Please talk to me," I add.

"Pfft." He rolls to his side, facing the sofa back and away from me. Grrrrr....

"Brian, quit it!!" I've rarely raised my voice to Brian; it catches his attention.

"Go 'way," he mumbles after a beat.

I get up, go get some sausage links from the freezer, fry them up with some eggs, then go back to Brian and clunk the plate on the coffee table. "Eat."

"Pfft," he mutters again.

"Eat something!!" He ignores me. Okay, now I'm starting to get angry. He's behaving like a recalcitrant child! "Brian, you shit! Self pity makes my dick soft--!" That elicits an immediate but barely audible snort; after all, I'm using his line against him. "You *have* to eat and drink, you boney toad!" He growls at that. "Sustain yourself!! Fuck, give me the key to the liquor cabinet and I'll fix you a drink!" I noticed he locked the liquor cabinet after my first visit to the loft. Wise move on his part, of course- a little insulting, but not really. I think Mr. Marsh insisted he lock it if I was going to be staying with him for periods of time. Honestly, I don't know how it is that Mr. Marsh is allowing me to be away from the center for so long. Brian has a lot of power behind the scenes I don't know much about- I just know he does. It may be how the whole kidnapping/killing nightmare hasn't blown into a media/legal disaster of seismic proportions, come to think of it. It's an issue, yeah, but it could be so much more public than it is.

"Stay away from the liquor cabinet," he says flatly.

I smirk, undaunted. "Brian..." I whine, knowing how annoyed he gets when I do that. Then, fucking dammit! I scratch at the healing wounds where those dirty needles stuck me; it's gotten so I'm hardly aware I'm doing it anymore, but right now they're itchy, red and scary. I haven't had time to get tested. Well, that's a lie. I've had time, oodles of it, but Brian hasn't gotten up except to go to the bathroom and I haven't dared broach the subject; I really don't think I can handle going to get tested alone so I haven't. And Brian's in no place to have to coddle my sorry ass through another harrowing ordeal.

He looks over at me after a few seconds, noticing my whining has stopped; his frown deepens. "What the hell...?" It's like he's really seeing me for the first time in days. Then a look of pure horror and recognition comes over his face and he sits bolt upright. In all the chaos happening around us, he'd forgotten about the needles. "SHIT!" He grabs my hand and glares at the puncture wounds. "SHIT!!" he hisses again. He looks into my eyes- I try to look away but can't. "Get dressed. Now." His voice is deceptively gentle but brooks no argument.

Fuck. He's on his feet, pulling me up and pushing me towards the bedroom.


	13. Chapter 13

  
Author's notes: Brian and Justin return from the clinic to find that they don't have the time to worry. BTW: Linds is in this chap—and she's still somewhat hard to take, I'm afraid, but so it goes…! PS: Thank you all for the wonderful comments- all are so helpful! I've really struggled with some of this (the writing/story/worrying about if the guys are getting "OOC", etc.)-- constructive feedback is very much appreciated! I have no beta, so again, my apologies for any mistakes!  


* * *

We get back from the clinic within two hours. I'm a mess. Brian's silent. He throws the keys onto the kitchen island, takes me by the fingers of my casted arm and leads me up to the bedroom. He strips down, climbs under the covers and looks at me. I stand at the foot of the bed staring. Almost unconsciously, I start scratching at my palm while aching panic stews in my gut. I'll hear the results in one week. One week. I may have HIV. Hepatitis. Any number of venereal diseases. Just about anything. "Shut up." Huh? "I didn't say anything...!" I stammer.  
"Not aloud maybe. But you're thinking too much. Come here."  
  
*I'm* thinking too much?? What's Brian been doing for two days straight? I sigh. He knows I could say the same to him- for different reasons, perhaps, but we're both seemingly possessed. I falter on my way towards the bed- fuckfuckfuck, I wish my brain was like it used to be just 3 months ago!  
  
"Shut. Up," he repeats. I'm still 'thinking too much', obviously.  
  
I fall into bed next to him, flipping off my shoes and pulling off my tee. I'm about to take off my sweats when there's a loud knock.  
  
"Ignore it," Brian says quietly, reaching to help me slip out of my sloppy sweats; I'm about ignore the knock as requested, get completely naked and lie next to my lover to snuggle (in my brain, I hear Brian's distinctive, derisive snort at that term- but until my test results come back, that's all we can do. I don't want to put him at any unnecessary risk by doing more)- then Lindsay's voice pierces the heavy front door accompanied by even more insistent banging. I try to suppress an audible groan and note Brian does the same.  
  
"Brian!! Brian, open up!!" Then we hear Gus whimpering and Brian is up like a shot, pulling on some loose-ish boxers (hell, I'm in no mood to think anything but doom, gloom and all things shitty, but fuck-all if my body still automatically responds to his natural, confident grace). He deftly snaps the elastic waistband against his taut belly and strides hurriedly to open the front door. Lindsay pushes past him, looking harried and upset. Gus is crying and immediately reaches both arms for his father to take him. "Brian, please- can you take Gus for the night? It's last minute, I'm sorry—but he won't stop asking for you and Mel called from a layover in La Guardia-- she's on her way to PITTSBURGH! She just called an hour ago to tell me! I can't believe how cavalier she's being! Leaving us to go to Canada- and suddenly she's back four months later, practically showing up unannounced at my door!"  
  
"Lindsay," Brian says calmly, "Breathe. Slow down. She must want to see how you and Gus are doing after the other night. She has every right to see her son--"  
  
"Ha!" Lindsay scoffs. "'Our' son?? Gus is OUR son!" She wags her index finger between Brian and herself. Um... whoa. "I can't believe her! She ups and leaves, taking 'her baby' as she calls JR, and she expects to be welcomed back at the drop of a hat?" I don't know what the fuck has happened between Lindsay and her wife, but from what I glean, it's been ugly.  
  
"Linds! It's her son!" Brian admonishes.  
  
"Brian, she doesn't see Gus as hers- she sees him as OURS- yours and mine!" [Gee, I wonder why...] "Mel throws that in my face all the time- she screams at Gus for having you as a FATHER!" Holy shit... "She's a jealous witch! You know that when Gus does anything she doesn't like, she calls him worthless just like his FATHER?? She's awful, Brian! It was hard at first after she left, but I was quick to realize how miserable things had gotten- for me, for Gus, for her-- even 6 month old JR was sad all the time!"  
  
Brian's face is frozen as he digests what Lindsay's so blithely revealing: Melanie screams at Gus merely because Brian's his father. "Jesus, no…" he whispers almost silently to himself. God. He sounds literally heart-broken…! My impulse is to rush to him and hold him, but I just bite my lip and blink away the film of tears starting to form in my eyes.  
  
Then he quickly snaps out of his unhappy reverie. "Lindsay!" he barks harshly.  
  
But she's on a tear, oblivious to anything but her own drama. "…And Mel's not coming to see how Gussy and I are!" Brian scowls and finally takes his wriggling son from Lindsay's arms; she hardly notices. As soon as the toddler is wrapped snugly in Brian's embrace, he calms down and happily runs his pudgy hand across his Daddy's bare collar bone then traces his stubby finger down the hard cast. "She's not!" Lindsay emphasizes. "I didn't tell her!!"  
  
I gasp and Brian actually snarls. "What?" he bites out.  
  
But Lindsay has heard my gasp and turns to see me standing at the top of the bedroom steps. "YOU!" she hisses viciously, narrowing her eyes. "YOU! What are you still DOING HERE?"  
  
At the risk of sounding like the teen-ager I am, I want to snap at her to take a fucking CHILL PILL. She's talked with Brian since this all went down- those phone conversations were the only times in the past two days Brian's strung together more than three sentences. It was always all about Gus. I wasn't mentioned- at least not on Brian's end, but there were a few silences that were more like Brian getting his temper under control than him listening to a rundown about Gus' moods. I chose to pretend it was nothing. Or at least, none of my business. Which was true. 'Til now.  
  
"Lindsay, Justin's staying here for awhile- lay the hell OFF. I swear to God, since this all happened a few days ago, you've completely unhinged; it's like I don't know you! The fuck?!" He pauses, taking a deep breath to calm himself for Gus' sake. "Linds, why didn't you tell Mel what's going on?" he finally asks.  
  
But Lindsay's focus is completely centered on me now. "You!" she hisses once more, seething, not hearing Brian at all. "You-- you-- you kidnapping delinquent!" She stalks over to me, pointing an accusing finger at eye level. I back away unsteadily as she nears, genuinely afraid she's going to slug me.  
  
"LINDSAY!" Brian growls, Gus or no Gus. "STOP IT! Stop it! I mean it! Don't you DARE attack Justin! You're blaming him for something he had NO CONTROL OVER! JUSTIN ESSENTIALLY RESCUED YOUR SON! Jesus Christ!  
  
"You're fucking strung out, Lindsay- go home! Sonny Boy is fine with me for a few days if necessary- longer if you need it! Go rest and then deal with Mel-- whatever the hell's going on between you two, I don't want it going on in front of my son! And I do not want him around her if she's going off on him because I'm his father!" Fuck, damned straight! I don't know much, but I already know that Brian's done a million things putting Gus before himself- and that has included putting both Lindsay and Melanie's happiness before his own. Luckily, underneath it all, Lindsay knows this. "GO!" Brian commands. "And," he adds in a quiet but ominous tone, "if you ever trash Justin again, I want you to understand this because I mean every fucking word: I WILL NOT TOLERATE IT ONE GODDAMNED SECOND."  
  
Guh... I don't know what he means, exactly. What would he do? Whatever it is, were his words being directed at *me*, I wouldn't want to find out. Deep down, I'm strangely thrilled at how protective he's being of me; I don't need it, but it's damned reassuring.  
  
Lindsay is still grimacing at me but she hears Brian this time. I'm not sure whether it's his deadly serious tone, his vague but meaningful threat, or his language (I don't think he EVER swears like that in front of Gus- unless it's critically important. Like now), but she shakes her head and looks at Brian holding her child. "Fine," she finally sighs, defeated. "I suppose I do need to pull myself together," she adds in a whisper. "But," she wags her finger at Brian menacingly, "do not for one second leave our child alone with this stranger!"  
  
"He's NOT a stranger!" Brian barks.  
  
"He is to me, Brian! Get rid of him! I don't have a clue what this is all about between you and this… this JUSTIN…, but he's BAD NEWS."  
  
I suck in a breath. She's right, in a way. But I'd never ever intentionally hurt Brian or his son. Never. And Brian knows this; that's all that matters to me. Fuck Lindsay.  
  
Brian chooses to completely ignore what she's saying. "Go," he urges quietly, holding his son's head to his lips, kissing the boy's ruffled, soft hair. I can see him inhaling Gus' scent: Baby shampoo, playdoh, soap, talcum... clean and simply Gus. I can faintly smell it from here, combined with the subtle, crisp, masculine scent of his father.  
  
Lindsay eyes Brian, then gives him a kiss. Then she leans down and kisses their boy.  
  
"I'll see you soon, Lambskin. You be good with Daddy, okay?"  
  
Gus nods, grinning. "Daddy!!"  
  
She smiles tiredly, all the fight and mania that was driving her raving episode seemingly gone. "Yep. Daddy." With that she walks slowly to the door and is about to close it behind her, when, "Brian?" she asks softly.  
  
He raises an eyebrow.  
  
"I'm sorry. This DOES have me unhinged. I can tell you care about this Justin—" [I'm always 'this' Justin. Hff.] "And I DON'T know him, you're right. It's just, he scares me. This all scares me. I can't lose Gus. I can't lose you. You two are all I have."  
  
Brian looks dumbfounded a split second and then he smirks. "We're not all you have, you aren't losing Gus, you would find Justin gaggingly adorable if you'd quit with the snap judgments, and:" he glances at me over Gus' head with a weary smile, *almost* apologetic, "Go. Home."  
  
She laughs softly. "Thanks," she mutters in an unsettlingly wistful tone as the door clicks shut. Guh! Phew.  
  
"Daddy!" Gus exclaims giddily once she's gone. "Candyland, Daddy!"  
  
Brian rolls his eyes, puts the kid on his own two feet and crouches down to talk to Gus eye to eye. "You know where the games are, Sonny Boy. Why don't you go get Candyland and some others? And we can see if Justin wants to play. You remember Justin, right?"  
  
I cringe inside. The poor boy only knows me as the staggering, crying freak taking him from that dark, dusty, rarely-used room at Andy's the other night.  
  
Gus nods shyly, peeking at me from under his lashes.  
  
"Justin helped us a lot the other night, didn't he?"  
  
Gus emphatically shakes his head 'no', surprising Brian. And admittedly, me.  
  
"Gus, he found you! He took you away from that scary place--"  
  
"--I t'ought so, too, Daddy.... I did!"  
  
Brian waits a beat. "...But...?" he prompts.  
  
"But Mommy says it's Dus' fault I got took!"  
  
Brian groans. "Mommy's wrong, Gus. Incredibly WRONG. Justin had no idea those mean men were after you. He didn't. But he helped us find you. Without Justin, we would never have known even where to START to look for you, Sonny Boy," Brian tells him gently, planting a small kiss on the child's temple.  
  
Gus automatically smiles at the kiss and is thoughtful a few moments, looking at his feet, holding himself up by leaning on his Daddy's naked shoulder. Then Gus looks up at me and I hold his gaze hopefully. "T'ank you, Dus..." he whispers. "T'anks a lot," he repeats with a toothy smile, his voice much more certain this time.  
  
Brian grins broadly, proudly. "Good boy, Gus. You're such a well-mannered little gentleman, ya goofball!" Gus giggles happily and runs off to get some games. I exhale a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. Brian doesn't stand out of his crouch right away. He just smiles a little and finally looks up at me. "Sunshine," he says softly, "This has been one fucking kick-in-the-head day for you. Are you doing okay?"  
  
His voice is so overtly concerned, my stomach flip-flops a little. I beam at him, nodding. Despite ALL THIS: The kidnapping, killing a man, Lindsay's condemning me, scary blood tests, brain-damage, pancreatic issues, bone freezing concern for this unusual man I love, etc. etc.- right now, the answer is: "Better than okay!" I hop down the steps- and promptly fall on my face. I can't seem to remember my lack-of-balance issues at important moments, but you know? For once, I decide not to get all worked up about it, or self deprecating, or self pitying-- instead, I just pick myself up laughing a little, and go over to join Brian on the floor. He's still smiling; I think he's glad that I'm not going into a mini-tailspin over my fall; that for once I'm genuinely laughing it off is a relief to him.  
  
You know what else? I'm happy. Despite the unbelievable amount of shit coming down around my ears: I'm truly happy. I've never been *truly* happy. For the moment, I feel able to put my snarled tangle of worries into a box and shove it to the back of the closet. Tonight, I'm gonna let myself be happy, quietly in love and worry-free.


	14. Chapter 14

+++  
We play that godforsaken Candyland game for hours. Just the three of us, on my hard, hard floor. In the back of my mind, a voice that sounds ominously like my own grumbles that I'm WAY too old for this. When it's finally Gus' (and our) bedtime, I get him into his PJs, help him brush his teeth and tuck him into the small bed I have for his visits. He's such a special boy; I truly believe I'd say that even if he weren't my son. I'm not a fan of kids (go figure, huh?), but there's something about Gus that's unique. He's pretty typical for a youngster his age, but he's unusually sensitive. And kind. And loving. And perceptive. And thoughtful. AND articulate. Qualities that, were Jack right about a child of mine being 'death', would not be thriving in his little soul. Someday, I'll allow myself to explore this mini-phenomenon that is my child's extraordinary nature. And after this nightmare with Justin's blood tests is over, I'll think hard about the frightening things Lindsay told me earlier. Mel screams at my son for simply BEING my son?!? It's like she's channeling Jack and all my demons!! I simply can't face it full-on right now. It's too much and I have to be here, whole and strong, for everyone. Everything and everybody around me is fraying fast at the edges. I can't. Simply CAN'T.  
  
"G'night Daddy," Gus smiles at me. "Love you."  
  
I smile back. "Good night, little man. I love you too. I'll leave the blue lights on, okay? That'll help you sleep and if you need me, I'll be in bed right underneath them, okay?" Gawd. I sound like such a sappy queen.  
  
"'Kay, Daddy!"   
  
"And wanna say good night to Justin?"  
  
It's blatantly obvious Sunshine's already captured my son's heart: Gus' grin widens immediately and he cranes his neck a little. "G'night, Dus!" he calls into the bedroom where 'Dus' is folding down the blankets.  
  
I see Sunshine's face light up. Having Gus here is the perfect distraction for Justin; me, as well. Otherwise, we'd both be wringing our hands and gnashing our teeth worrying over Justin's as-yet-unknown results: Sunshine would be pacing the loft, literally acting out; and I'd be pacing my mind, mentally acting out. "Good night, Gus! Sweet dreams!"  
  
Sigh. This is so fucking domestic, I could puke. Whatever. It just looks that way- it isn't really. Thank God.  
  
I kiss Gus on the forehead and ignore my crackling knees as I get up. I walk into the bedroom, feeling the exhaustion in my bones. Justin walks over with nary a stumble, grinning tiredly- even happily- and embraces me tight. "I..."  
  
"--Shhh. Get in bed." I know that 'I'—at least, now I do. It's the 'I love you,' 'I'. The dreaded, phony 'I love you'.  
  
The thing is, I'm lying to myself. Pfft. 'I love you': a phrase gracing a few trillion greeting cards, a phrase filling awkward moments in a few trillion soap operas, a phrase I've heard from Mikey, Lindsay, Vic, Deb- even Emmett... And of course, Gus. And now Justin.   
  
But 'I love you' is a phrase that I'm starting to admit is sometimes *meant*. *Some* people mean 'I love you'. They aren't trying to yank your chain, tell you something out of obligation, or get in your good graces-- they mean it. I, however, don't say it. Well, I do to Gus all the time. Sometimes I say it to Mikey and Linds...   
  
But not Justin. Doing that would make the phrase take on a power I can't handle. To say 'I love you' to Justin... shit, it would lay me bare. I'd be proverbially chained naked to a rock, waiting for the eagle to come everyday to eat out my liver. Pfft. 4th grade Greek mythology. Just call me Prometheus. The guy who, among a million other things, pissed off Zeus, the head honcho of the pantheon. Sure sounds like something I would do.  
  
+++++  
  
*THWACK!*   
  
"OW!! Shit!!" I sit bolt upright, holding my head; it takes a moment, but then I register what's happening: Justin's having another nightmare and just conked me with his cast. He's still sleeping restlessly, squirming around; obviously, my outraged "ow" didn't wake him. "Justin!" I whisper. "Wake up!!"  
  
"Nooo!! Don't!" he mumbles.  
  
"Justin!!"  
  
His eyelids flutter open and he looks around wide-eyed, confused and dazed.  
  
"Justin, it's me. It's okay. You were having a nightmare," I say quietly, tenderly rubbing the small knot growing near my temple.  
  
"Wha...?"  
  
"Nightmare. Me- Brian. Loft- us." Sure, I'm talking like Tarzan, but it's 3AM. Sue me. "Wanna tell me about it?"  
  
He squeezes his eyes closed a moment to clear his head. "N-no."  
  
"Fine. Go back to sleep. If anything like that happens again, I'm tying your arms down. That hurt."  
  
He looks at me questioningly. "What?" He's been having a lot of nightmares lately- more and more since his blood was drawn for testing a couple days ago. Usually, he gets back to sleep just fine- it's ME who loses zzz's over them.  
  
"You knocked me in the head with that fucking cast, idiot! Keep it up and you KNOW my cast can beat up your cast!"  
  
He chuckles tiredly. Brat. "Oh. Hm. Sorry."  
  
Bah! He's not 'sorry', but I nod and turn to face away from him, punching my pillow to get it how I like it.  
  
As I close my eyes, predictably: "You wanna know?"  
  
"Know what?" Sure, I know what. And no, not really, I don't wanna hear it. His dreams are kinda freaky and getting freakier and ALL seem to include me. I don't like it.  
  
"My dream..."  
  
"No."  
  
He's quiet a moment. I know he'll tell me anyway. Why I asked if he wanted to tell me; why he said no, then asked if I really wanted to know- why we bother dancing this little dance is beyond me. "It was weird," he finally says. "You... you and me... we were in the desert." Oh, no. Still, last night, we were in Justin's stomach of all places, so I guess this is a step up. "I couldn't walk right. We could see water far, far ahead on the horizon... you... you wouldn't go ahead of me- you kept me shaded, taking all the horrible, blistering sun to protect me... I kept..." he breathes deeply. "I kept telling you to go- to get to the water... to save yourself. I wasn't worth saving but you were. But you wouldn't listen," he chuckles almost nervously. "You're like that." Pfft! "…And soon you were pulling me along, trying to keep me going; God, you were so burned from the sun... you were sweating so hard, working so hard, you wouldn't stop. The water never seemed to get any closer. Still, you kept struggling. You were hurting, Brian... you were dying... and I couldn't get you to stop trying to save me. I couldn't get you to save yourself, you refused to protect yourself so that you could help me..." bigger breath. "Brian, as hard as I tried to get you to, you wouldn't leave me! I couldn't resist you helping me... I was too weak. And I wanted you... God, Brian, in my dream, I wanted you so much- so much more than I didn't want to want you." Justin clears his throat and he looks unfocused for a second. "Like in real life." Guh…   
  
"Then you turned into a wolf." Oh, good God, here we go. This kid dreams the weirdest SHIT! "You were crying, howling, whimpering - I still couldn't help you and still you were trying to save me, even though you were thoroughly exhausted. This wolf- you- emanated such strength but you suddenly… you suddenly collapsed, the scorching heat was finally too much. Even after you lay prone, helpless, you were so fucking determined to save me. I was crying and I tried to shade you but I couldn't move- you couldn't move- and some man, some evil man... he looked like, well, he looked like my father; then he morphed or something and looked like Andy and then Sap- anyway, he walked up to us, laughed at how we were suffering, how YOU were suffering and I wanted to KILL him! He looked so fucking smug, so comfortable... I was paralyzed, crying, and you were near death, lying there, panting, trying to growl. But he, he pulled out a gun and laughed again... and shot you. I screamed. He was still laughing after you stopped breathing and then he was aiming at me when I... I woke up..." he breathes deeply again. "And you were here... Brian, you were here."  
  
Bah! See what I mean about Justin having freaky dreams? Shit. "It was just a dream, Sunshine. It's okay. I know how much you love animals so I hate to tell you I'm no wolf- not the kind in your dream, anyway- and I'm not shot. I'm not dead of heat stroke or thirst. I'm not even sunburned. I'm almost human and I'm alive and I'm right here, like you said." Fuck, he looks so shaken and I sound so lame... "You're here too..." I pause, holding him to me gently. I notice that he's breathing really hard. "But one part of your dream is true: I can be fucking stubborn at times." When it matters. When I care.  
  
He chuckles a little and I feel his shoulders relax. "Brian...?"  
  
I stay silent, both dreading and hoping he'll continue. A few minutes pass and I figure that's that. "Just go back to sleep- the nightmare won't come back... if it does, I'm right here."  
  
"....Um. Brian?" he whispers again. "Brian, I--"  
  
"Shut up. Go back to sleep."   
  
He burrows into the bend in my body so that I'm spooning him. Despite my half-asleep state, I rub my cock against his ass and we both moan; our visceral rumblings sound so similar, we laugh. I wake more fully and pull his body against me so my dick is nudging into his crack, not penetrating of course, but close enough to make me bite my lip to hold back a forward thrust that would embed me raw in his ass.  
  
He hisses and pushes back, wanting me inside and I start to pull back to tell him to wait for me to get a condom when I'm jarred by a garbled whimper as he tears free of my arms in a nearly superhuman lunge forward. "NO!!!"  
  
"Justin! What? What is it? Did I hurt you? What?" I'm completely baffled.  
  
"Don't touch me! Don't touch me!"  
  
"Justin--! Just let me get a condom! What's wrong with y—"  
  
"No!"  
  
It takes my still-groggy, muddled brain a second before it dawns on me that Justin feels that he almost inadvertently endangered my life; that he may have almost given me HIV or something by our contact. "Justin, listen…" he's sobbing now, still on the far side of the bed and out of my reach. "Justin, come over here. I'm not going to fuck you without a condom. Or at all right now, if you don't want. But Justin…" Gawd. I almost said 'just let me hold you'! What a DYKE I am!! "Just come over here," I repeat instead.  
  
He sobs harder and can only manage to shake his head. "Justin, for God's sake, get over here!" I lean forward and grab his arm and pull him to me rather roughly. He resists, still shaking his head, but it's half-hearted and he soon buries his head into the crook of my neck, crying.   
  
"Oh, God! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!" he whispers between hiccups.  
  
"Shhhhhhh… sorry's bullshit, and you have no reason to feel sorry even if it weren't. Justin, you're going to turn me into a dickless fag if you keep this up, you realize that?" He laughs weakly. "You're going to be FINE. I would NEVER fuck you raw for YOUR sake and I shouldn't have almost gotten carried away like that."  
  
His arms come up between us and he covers his face with his hands, shaking his head again. "N-no… you didn't. I did. I can't hurt you anymore…"  
  
Puzzled, I look at his face – well, at his charcoal tinged fingers covering his face. I reach my own hands up and grasp his, lowering them to look into his watery eyes. "You aren't hurting me, Justin. I do not lie: And brain-damage or no, you are a bright young man, so hear me ONE LAST TIME I say this: You are not hurting me, you are not dragging me down, you are not somehow poisonous to me at ALL. I AM GLAD YOU'RE HERE. So quit the drama queen act. You'll be fine. I'll be with you regardless- you won't be fucking alone. If you remember, I'm over twice as old as you are, Sunshine. I can take care of myself. Twat. Now, stop crying and squirming and worrying and carrying on, and go to fucking sleep."  
  
Justin's sobs lessen and his smile returns, weak but genuine. His blue eyes study my face with such an overwhelming depth of love, relief and strange awe that my heart quickens a bit nervously. Justin's youth bothers me immensely when I'm reminded of it—but it's so easy to forget the age difference because it's as if he has an old soul. "Will you please keep holding me?" he asks with the guilelessness of a child: Pfft. Great. Now the age difference slaps me in the face.  
  
I sigh. "Yes." 'As long as you'll allow me to,' I add silently.  
  
+++  
I close my eyes and am finally very close to sleep when: "What do you think my dream means?" he asks in a hushed voice.  
  
Good fucking lord. "That you're crazy. Disturbed. Fucked up. Go to sleep."  
  
Justin squeezes my arm that now encircles his waist. "Really...!"  
  
I groan and open my eyes just to roll them. "Nothing. It meant nothing. It was a *dream*, Justin."  
  
"Well, a lot of it seems straightforward- for a dream, I mean. You saving me at the cost of your well-being- ultimately, your life. You're alive, of course- but already, you've faced death because of me. And you aren't happy."  
  
Aw, fuck.   
  
He continues, all panic of just moments ago gone—he's like that, I've found; his mind is always working. "You become a wolf- a fierce, loyal, courageous and smart animal. A spirit that's independent but also part of a pack..." Freud, Jung, Gestalt, Pavlov, Dr. Joyce Brothers, Dr. Phil, -- everyone better look out. Mr. Taylor's on the loose. "-I looooove wolves!" he gushes; he's starting to focus on the canine, not the dream. Whatever. "They're beautiful. They have a reputation that's undeserved- vicious, aggressive, loner beasts that lead base, evil, soulless lives. That's almost directly opposite of the truth... *you're* reputation is opposite of the truth, too..."  
  
"Justin. Please. I like wolves- I've been called one many times. I even play one in dreams. But it's 3:30AM. Wax eloquent and admiringly about your beloved wolves to yourself. Silently."  
  
Justin snickers. "Okay. Sorry. I'm really talking about you, though. My dream was pretty savvy- you're a lot like a wolf really is. And you do too much... for me..."  
  
"Shut up. I don't do anything for you. Go. To. Sleep."  
  
About 10 minutes later, I'm AGAIN nearly asleep when I hear a barely audible declaration that I'm fairly certain he doesn't intend for me to hear. "Yes, you do, Brian. Even if I find out I'm dying when I get the test results, you've already saved me."   
  
Fuck. I'm careful not to stir so he believes I'm asleep and didn't hear him. But I want to get up and scream and rage; he's NOT dying. He's NOT, because he CAN'T.  
  
He's SUCH a soppy fag.   
  
I'm angry now. If he hadn't been such a TWAT, he'd never have run from the center, those fucking discarded needles on the floor at Andy's never would have lodged in his palm and possibly infected him with HIV, and he wouldn't be freaking out because he thinks he's dying.   
  
BULL-HEADED, KLUTZY TWAT.  
  
I end up staying awake the rest of the night, watching his disgustingly beautiful, angelic face twitch in too-fitful sleep.


	15. Chapter 15

  
Author's notes: Thanks for reading!!  


* * *

A/N: This isn't terribly Mikey friendly, although he's just sort of whiny, not evil *snicker*. This is one morning in the week the boys have to wait for blood test results...  
\--------

I wake up bouncing on the mattress- the hell? The mystery is solved when a squealed "YAY!" fills the air and I make out the blur next to me as Gus jumping excitedly between me and Brian, making the mattress leap. "PANCAKES!! PANCAKES!!" he yells.

"Shhhhhh... Sonny Boy, quiet down! You'll wake the whole building!" Brian giggles- yes, *giggles*. He obviously doesn't know I'm awake, though how he could think I'd sleep through this mini-earthquake, I don't know.

"Maybe not the whole building, but you certainly woke *me*!"

"DUS!!" Gus shrieks and I find myself giggling too. "DADDY SAID HE'D BUY US PANCAKES DIS MORNIN'!!"

"Really? For himself, too?"

"YES!!! GET UP! C'MON!"

I rub my eyes and when I open them, I find Brian's already up, pulling on some soft, faded jeans. Yum.

The pancakes sound good, too.

Smiling, I get up, swaying and stumbling only slightly, and start getting dressed- a glance at the clock tells me it's only 7AM. Brian's up and it's only 7AM! "Diner, Brian?" I ask. I've never been, but Brian's talked about that place.

"I guess. It's Tuesday- it'll be crowded, but everywhere will. Deb's working today- you should meet her. And with her working, Sonny Boy will get more pancakes than he can handle. Instead of winding him up, I'm hoping they'll act like a narcotic. There's a 50/50 chance either way."

Gus' enthusiastic mania hasn't waned a bit by the time we're seated at a booth. 'Deb' is delighted and gushing all over him- and all over me, too, even though I only just met her 10 minutes ago. Deb's that guy Mikey's mom- and is like a surrogate mom to Brian, I think. He's talked about her several times- always a little flippantly, but the affection he has for her is obvious. I'm a little shocked at how brassy and in-your-face she is. She doesn't seem like someone Brian would associate with, let alone quietly cherish. But he said she came into his life when he was only 14. He hasn't talked about that particular time in his life, but I'm not stupid. Every day Brian lived in the Kinney house was torture. As loud and brash as Deb is, I can immediately tell she's fiercely loving, loyal and protective of the special people in her life. And Brian's second only to Michael in that department.

I like her.

"Gussy Gus, sweetie, here you go! Pancakes with extra syrup!" she exclaims with a chortle, plunking an enormously high stack of pancakes in front of the child's nose. "And here's your milk!" She places the sippy cup Brian had handed her next to the plate. "Eat up, honey! You're already so tall! You'll be a giant soon!"

"I wanna be as tall an' han'some as Daddy!" He grins. "Tall an' pretty! All the boys and girls like Daddy!! I don't like girls though."

Deb and I laugh. "You will, Gussy Gus. Girls still have cooties when they're your age!" Deb tells him.

I glance at Brian, who I swear is blushing. "Deb! Shut up! Gus, girls are nice too. Like whoever you want, but never be mean to anyone just because they're a boy or a girl or anything they have no choice about." Huh. Odd. Then a wisp of realization creeps into my mind; he's thinking about Mel and how she puts Gus down for simply being Brian's child. "And don't call Daddy 'pretty'," he adds with a slightly ill expression.

But Gus hardly listens to his father, having eagerly attacked the pancakes in front of him.

"Briiiiannn!" I know that voice! I look up and a short (well, my height), dark haired man is standing right next to Brian. Whining, for some reason. "You haven't returned any of my calls! What's happening with you? You don't come around the comic store or Woody's or the diner anymore! It's been like, weeks! You even blew off meeting me at Woody's a little while ago!!"

"I'm right here, Mikey. I'm right here, in the *di-ner*," Brian articulates slowly and patiently, picking at the short stack in front of him.

Mikey! Ah. I knew I'd heard his voice somewhere. He glances over and seems to recognize me. "HIM??!! That dead-end druggie, that *twink* you carried to the loft that night is still AROUND!? What has gotten into you!!?"

I don't think I like 'Mikey' so far.

Brian takes a deep breath- I see that he's had a lot of practice dealing with whiney immaturity. Gus is a piece of cake compared to this guy. Well, that's my impression so far. "Mikey, this is Justin, a good friend. I told you Justin was sick the other night- he's NOT a 'dead-end druggie'. Or a twink. And it's not the first time I haven't shown up to meet you at Woody's- and it won't be the last. You'll live. You always have before."

"He's a 'good friend'??? Since WHEN??" Michael seems to have a selective sense of hearing. "Briiiann! I don't get it! I don't know this little twink!! We're best friends! You tell me everything!!"

No, he doesn't. I don't even know what Brian talks to him about, but I can just about guarantee Brian doesn't tell 'Mikey' everything.

"Michael, I haven't known Justin very long- we just kinda clicked, that's all. There's nothing to tell. And I do NOT tell you everything. Your wee brain would vaporize if I told you everything."

Michael looks affronted. "Nuh-uh!" Fuck. I hardly went to school but I know that expression was popular among 7th grade teenage girls years ago. "You do too tell me everything! How do you know this guy?"

"I told you- community serv—"

Deb, who's been busy with other customers, comes back to the table; Brian sighs in relief, appreciating her timing. "Hey, baby!" She beams at her son. "Want somethin' to eat, pumpkin?"

"No, Ma," he answers dejectedly.

"What's the matter? Some salt peter fall into your oatmeal?"

"Maaaa!"

"'Course not," she chuckles. "Even if it did, in your case, Brian'd cancel it out!"

Whoa. Huh? I'm beginning to realize there's quite a bit about Brian I don't know. "MA!"

Brian rolls his eyes and pushes his barely-touched pancakes away. "Deb, it's nothing, okay? It's just that I haven't been around much recently. Mikey's having a hissy fit over nothing. Must be that time of the month."

I suppress a laugh and avert my eyes, looking over at Gus who is completely absorbed in eating his gooey breakfast.

"Michael, stop expecting Brian to be there for you--" What? "He's always got his dick in some new perfect ass. You count on him too much." Deb smacks her gum and crosses her arms.

"He's my best friend, Ma! He's always been there!"

Fuck, do these people not see Brian right here? Or me and Gus, for that matter? The fuck!

Brian wets his napkin in his water, wipes Gus' syrupy mouth clean, stands and gathers up his child. "Let's go, Sonny Boy. You've eaten enough for an army."

Gus, instead of being upset by his interrupted meal, claps his hands. "I ate a lot!" he says proudly.

"Yep, you did. You comin', Sunshine?" Brian asks impatiently, glancing over his shoulder as he starts towards the door. I'm up in a flash, tossing my napkin on the table and ignoring my inadvertent stagger from the sudden motion. I pause a moment to excuse myself politely; Deb's chuckling deeply and Michael's pouting.

"Be good to this young man, Brian. He's got manners,” she calls after him. "And you're coming to dinner Sunday! You've missed family night twice in a row. Now that I see this cute lil' bubblebutt, I know why- but I want details. Good ones!"

I hurry after Brian and Gus who are practically already out the door. I vaguely notice that, just like when Brian walked through the halls at the residential center, most if not all eyes are following him- hungrily, longingly, enviously, jealously. It's unnerving. And right now, Brian's oblivious; he just wants to *get out*.

All in all, I don't particularly like how the few folks I've met in Brian's life treat him (except Gus, of course), but it's not entirely unexpected. He's cultivated the asshole rep to the hilt, and it seems that people play along with it (Michael is a bit clueless and needy, though). But I can see that they're just playing roles; it's easy to see that underneath, they love him.

Pfft. I dunno. Right now, the only ones I care about are the ones I can barely keep pace with; Brian's long strides are out-distancing me and I can't keep up without stumbling. Fucker. But I know where his mind's at… not Michael, Deb, his work, Lindsay or even Gus. It's me. Me and test results that we'll hear about in 2 days.


	16. Chapter 16

  
Author's notes: I hope you like this chap- thank you for the great reviews!   


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We haven't talked about it, but we're here now: the clinic. The Results. We've just heard. 

  
And… Justin's fine. No Hepatitis, HIV, VD- nothing. Part of me wants to seep into the rug in a puddle of relief (it's been a week of nerves as taut as a piano wire); the other part wants to take what little strength I have left and spin my Sunshine around the dance floor like Gomez spun Morticia in that scene in Addams Family Values. Yet another part of me wants to throttle the little shit. Except for my son and sometimes Mikey, I do NOT WORRY about people and this freak staggered into my life mere months ago and I've been a white knuckle for a week.  
  
"This doesn't mean I'm in the clear, Brian," Justin whispers as the nurse smiles artificially and mumbles some sort of goodbye as I hold the door open for Sunshine.  
  
Yes, it does. It has to. "It does for now," I say rather stupidly.  
  
"Daddy?" Gus whimpers as he nearly trips off the front step. I hoist him up and he giggles a little. "Dus okay?"  
  
Surprised, I look at him as I follow Justin to the Jeep. "What do mean, Sonny Boy? Of course Justin's okay."  
  
"He's not going to die? Did he hear the test results?"  
  
Justin looks around sharply and nearly falls down. "Gus?"  
  
I look at Justin's expression and he looks petrified. Oh, for Christ's sake. "He just picks up on shit, Justin. Relax.  
  
"Gus, Justin's not going to die. I didn't know you were worried about that- I realize we've hardly talked about why we're here… I…" Hm. Two young men freaking out in my Jeep: Great. What to say?  
  
"Gus, how'd you know about test results? About why we were going to the clinic?" Justin manages after my lame sentence trails off.  
  
Gus looks at me and then shyly at Justin. "I didn't… really. It's jus' that Daddy… Daddy was kinda watery last night…"  
  
Huh?  
  
"What?" Justin asks, surprised.  
  
Gus looks back at me- if he were older, I'd say he looks almost apologetic. But he's a 3 year old- he's too young for such grown-up decorum. Right? Still, I lower my gaze and start the Jeep.  
  
"Gus, what?" Justin repeats.  
  
I take a deep breath. This sucks. "Daddy…" Gus continues, "Daddy. I needed Daddy las' night… I couldn't sleep. I went into Daddy's room and he was sorta… he was sorta holdin' you all soft and he was cryin'. Daddy doesn't cry."  
  
Out of the corner of my eye, I *feel* Justin's disbelieving stare creep from my son's face to mine.  
  
"You were sleepin', Dus."  
  
Oooookay. This beyond 'sucks'. "Gus, quiet." I had no idea he came into the room last night, no idea he saw me and no CLUE he or ANYone heard me. "Just be… just hush," I whisper. There's really nothing I can say – I can't call my son a liar (he's not), I can't brush off what he saw with some excuse, I can't slug him… fuck.  
  
"He was tellin' you that you couldn't die, couldn' be sick- he called you a 'fucker'…" he continues to inform Justin, apparently completely disregarding my quiet pleas. I snort though, despite myself. Now I'm sure he heard me last night if he heard me call Sunshine 'fucker'.   
  
We're almost home- and I abruptly turn, just now deciding to head to the center. Justin should get back into the 'program' full-time; I mean, we know he's fine at the moment and we both need to get back to the way we were. Right? Right. I decide this right now because, of course, this moment in Brian Kinney's grand lifetime is too intense for an audience of a brain-damaged, drug-addicted, alcoholic, prostituting freak and my own child.  
  
It takes a few moments of Justin gaping at me, incredulous, before he looks around and recognizes where we're heading. "Brian!" he exclaims. "Where are you going?"  
  
"You're going home."  
  
Justin laughs humorlessly. "Oh, fuck no I'm NOT!"  
  
I turn my eyes to him fully at the corner red light- I notice the Baskins Robbins we never went to on my left. "You say you're a bad presence in my life. Now I agree. So, 'oh, fuck YES you ARE'."  
  
Then, unbelievably, Justin's hand snakes out, snatches the keys in the ignition, fully disengages the engine and throws them out the window- we're 'parked' at the light and Mr. Brain-Damage is looking at me fiercely. Gus is in the back in his car seat, watching this exchange with curiosity and a touch of apprehension. "Don' get mad at Dus, Daddy!" he whimpers. "I'm sorry!"  
  
"Gus, quiet," I say again, my eyes never leaving Justin's. I'm so pissed, raw, vulnerable right now, if I had a gun, I'd probably shoot the fucker – Justin, that is- not Gus. No, I wouldn't. Well, okay then: I'd actually probably shoot myself, if anyone. And no. No, I wouldn't- not here, now, today. "Justin, go get the keys." The light changes and the car behind me honks.   
  
"No," he answers simply. Stubborn twat.   
  
"Go. Get. The. Keys."  
  
"NO."  
  
I'm startled by an impatient rapping on the window beside me; I look over and it's some pissed-looking meek nerd yelling at me that I'm blocking traffic, that the light's changed, to fucking go. I ignore him and look back at Justin, whose stare hasn't wavered. Fine. I unbuckle my seatbelt, get out of the car, fetch a softly whimpering Gus from his car seat and walk away, again ignoring the yelling nerd and the rest of the honking cars stacked behind the Jeep at the light. I have no clue what I'm doing, where I'm going, or why it seems I'm 'running' even though I'm walking at a calm, normal pace.  
  
As I turn a corner, my son still crying on my shoulder but remaining wordless, I hear a stumbling behind me.   
  
"Hey, man!! Are you alright?" I turn around and see Justin lying on the sidewalk some distance away, convulsing. SHITSHITSHIT!!! A skater-type is standing over him and scratching his head. "Man? Dude, are you okay?" he asks again. "I think we need help, here," he announces to nobody. Idiot!  
  
Like lightning, I rush over and put Gus down. "Daddy?? Daddy, is Dus okay?? Daddy?" I've picked Justin up; he's twitching and strange noises are coming from his throat; his eyes are closed but his eyelids are fluttering, exposing only the whites. Shit. Shitshitshitshitshitnonononononono!  
  
"Gus, follow us, okay? Stay close to Daddy- grab my pant leg. We're going back to the car…" Trying to sound, act, 'be' calm, I hold Justin's spastic body to mine as I carry him back the short way to the Jeep; I buckle him in, gather the discarded keys from the gutter, strap in my son and finally allow myself to move with the urgency I'm feeling- we screech away and race like a bat out of hell back to the loft.  
  



	17. Chapter 17

  
Author's notes:

A/N: Okay, this is a little strange as it's from Gus' POV and I haven't been 3 (or even 4) in some time… ;) I hope it works. Oh- and this is almost the final chapter, FYI. Thank you for reading/reviews!

\---Greta 

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Daddy's lying with Dus. He looks really worried- Dus isn't jerking around anymore, but Daddy can't seem to get him to wake up. I don't know what's going on, but I think it's my fault.   
  
Daddy doesn't like to show his feelings- that's what Mommy says. I dunno- he does with me all the time. Wit' me, he's happy and laughing and tells me he loves me so much- and I love him so much, it hurts when Momma Mel talks mean about him all the time. She's… she's mean to me 'cause of Daddy sometimes. Anyway, I've kept quiet--Daddy looks so scared and that scares me… I'm not sure, but I think Daddy's crying again. I wish Dus would wake up! See, it's my fault 'cause I shouldn'ta asked if Dus was okay this morning. But somethin' was wrong! He an' Daddy hardly talked all morning and when they talked to me, it seemed kinda phony or something, like something was bothering them. An' then we all went to that clinic place Daddy hates and talks bad about. I think Dus was cryin' in the car, but he tried to hide it; Daddy's face was all serious an' kinda stony- he gets that way when Momma Mel yells at him - like he's upset but doesn't want to show it.   
  
Then the nurse lady wanted Daddy to stay wit' me in the big, yellow room with all the magazines while Dus went into the back, but Dus really wanted Daddy to go wit' him. The nurse said he couldn't- not with me. Daddy got all mad and I think he scared the lady – she finally let us both go with Dus but Daddy made me stay on the other side of the smaller room with the toys when the Dr. came in to talk to them. I sorta played, but I watched Daddy an' Dus more- something was really wrong. And when Daddy got all sad last night when Dus was sleepin', an' he didn't know I was there—that scared me LOTS! I guess I figured out that us being at the clinic had somethin' to do with Daddy tellin' Dus he couldn't be sick. He was crying when he was tellin' Dus that. Real quiet, but I could tell he was cryin'—I didn't like it. So I figured that we were at the clinic today to hear about somethin' Dus had tested.   
  
I started crying when Dus did- I mean when he started *really* crying after the Dr. talked to him and Daddy quietly. I didn't hear, but it was kinda weird- Dus was laughing an' crying at the same time an' Daddy looked… relieved or something. It spooked me- was Dus okay? Daddy held Dus forEVER; at the same time, he reached his hand out to me, so I crossed the little room and hugged his leg hardhardhard as he hugged Dus. His big, warm hand was cupping my head and he smiled down at me as Dus cried on his shoulder. Daddy's so strong- Dus seemed to hang onto Daddy like he'd fall down if Daddy weren't holding him up; I did too. I was still so confused but I was happy Dus was laughing even if he was cryin' too and sort of cuckoo-like.   
  
I really, really like Dus.   
  
It wasn't till we were outside did I dare ask if Dus was okay… and I said about Daddy cryin' holding Dus las' night... and I think that's what made Daddy get all inside himself and uptight, wanting to take Dus back to the center-thing. And then Dus got all upset and threw the keys to the car out the window- an' Daddy got even more quiet and mad and he took me an' walked away from the car. Then Dus was behind us… he got real sick; he just fell down and started jerking around- it was SCARY! He was on the sidewalk, on his back, white bubbles coming out of his mouth… Daddy hurriedhurriedhurried us back to the Jeep an' back home, and is with Dus now, but Dus isn't waking up.   
  
"Daddy?" I call quietly. He looks over at me, his eyes all red and unfocused-like.   
  
"What, Sonny Boy?"  
  
"I'm sorry…"  
  
I think I hear him whisper "shit" as he hoists himself up to come over to me. "Gus, you have nothing to be sorry about, little man. Seriously."  
  
"I made Dus sick… I made you all mad an' then he got upset an' then he got sick comin' after us. I'm sorry Daddy!"  
  
He looks at me like I'm nutty- an' like he's surprised, too. "Gus," he says finally. "You did NOT make Justin sick. He's got a problem with seizures- do you know what a seizure is?"  
  
"Bobby has them at pre-school… epi… epil…" I can't remember the name.  
  
He gets a tired smile. "Epilepsy. It's like epilepsy- Justin has something like epilepsy. You didn't do anything to make him have a seizure. I'm sorry if I've been kinda weird this morning- I've probably flipped you out a bit, eh, Sonny Boy? You've been awfully quiet…"  
  
I feel my bottom lip quiver. "I'm scared, Daddy. I'm scared 'cause you look scared. And you look sad. And worried. And I don't want you to be scared or sad or worried. I don't want Dus to die…"  
  
He pulls me over; I see his pretty smile as he hugs me. "Don't be scared, Sonny Boy. 'Dus' isn't going to die, he just needs to rest. You're so smart, Gus-- a true Kinney. You figured out we went to the clinic to get some test results for Justin, right?" I nod. He knows that. "Well, we should have told you what's going on instead of you having to figure it out-- we didn't even talk about it with each other. How grown-up, huh?" he asks playfully, like he's making fun of himself.  
  
"No," I answer honestly.  
  
Daddy snickers. I love when Daddy laughs. He seems more relaxed now. "You're a true Kinney, Gus," he says again. "I love you," he whispers.  
  
I giggle through my tears. "I love you too, Daddy," I sniffle.  
  
"Justin had to have some blood tests, Gus. To see if he IS sick. At the moment, the results say he's fine-"  
  
"Then why won't he wake up?"  
  
He scrubs a hand over his face. "He's just had a seizure. This happens. It's just it's been a more serious one this time. But the seizure's over- he just needs time. We're going to get him checked out though." His voice gets kinda determined and grumpy with the last thing he says, like it does when he's telling Momma Mel he's gonna see me no matter what when she tries to say no. I don't think he's really sayin' it to me though, I think he's sorta tellin' it to himself.  
  
"Are you making him go back to the center?" Daddy's hug gets a little looser and he's quiet a minute. "Daddy?"  
  
"Brian?" Dus is awake! I look over to the bed and he's looking at us- his eyes look a little 'out of it' as Aunt Daphne sometimes says about Daddy when he comes to pick me up after she's babysat me. She was up here a few nights ago giving Daddy 'shit', as he put it (he thought he was whispering so I couldn't hear. Nope.) She was teasing him on and on about Dus. It was funny- or, Dus an' I thought so.  
  
"Dus!!!" I shriek an' then I hear a little strangled noise from Daddy and I look at him; his face is so close to mine, I can feel his breath on my cheek; his eyes are frozen, stuck on Dus- staring like he either can't believe what he's seeing or kinda like he's mad… or both. He seems to snap out of it and in an instant he's picked me up in his strong arms an' we're rushing over to Dus- it makes me giggle more. "Dus!!" I yell again as Daddy plops me on the mattress beside him; I hug him but not too tight- he's sick and I don't wanna hurt him.  
  
I feel his arm around my back and I pull away to look at him; he's smiling but his eyes are glued to Daddy. He loves Daddy. It makes me so happy. "Brian," he whispers. Dus' arm leaves my back an' he reaches for him and pulls him into a big, sloppy kiss. Then Daddy whispers something to him an' kisses him again.  
  
"Ooey gooey kisses!" I laugh- he's really okay! Dus is okay! Dus an' Daddy are okay! 


	18. Chapter 18

  
Author's notes: This is it, guys!  Thanks so much for reading-  :)  


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As I said:  here's the finale ;)  
Thank you all for all your feedback- this has been great  
\---------  
Brian. Brian. Brian. That's all my brain reverberates with – his name, over and over. And as I open my eyes, I find myself in the loft, on his bed- to see him across the room, holding his son who is desperately holding him in return. Holding him and asking him if he's going to make 'Dus'- ME- go back to the center. "Brian?" Gus and Brian both look over at me- Gus looks ecstatic I'm awake; Brian looks like he wants to kill me. But he gathers Gus into his arms and strides to the bed, putting Gus next to me- and Gus promptly hugs me and I feel warm all over. I can't pull my gaze from Brian's beautiful, worried face though. I find myself whispering his name again and I reach for him, drawing his lips to mine. Love. Hokey, syrupy, corny, honest, unadulterated love. 'Brian' fills my brain, 'love' fills my heart and fuck-all if I don't feel like anything is possible right now. I mean, I could write for Hallmark and MEAN it. If Brian knew my thoughts and feelings at the moment, he'd be vomiting like Linda Blair in the Exorcist. Suddenly I realize Brian's leaned in close to my ear. "Sunshine, I have three things to say that you can think about and we can discuss later," he whispers quickly, like he's been thinking these 'things' for awhile and is only now saying them. "One, I'm taking you to the doctor in one fucking hour specifically to get these seizures dealt with—that's not up for discussion. Two, if you can stomach the idea, I'd appreciate if you could stay here with me for awhile. You know, since it may be that I have Gus more and all," uh-huh. Right. "And finally…" he takes a deep breath and pauses. Frankly, I'm not sure I've breathed at all after he whispered "One,…". He kisses me again softly, then, "Finally, I---"  
  
"Ooey gooey kisses!" Gus giggles, having watched our kiss. Brian snickers and pulls away. ARRRRRRRGHHH!! (But, you know? I think I know that 'I'… I've USED that 'I'…)  
  
"Ooey gooey and wet, Sonny Boy. Sunshine tends to get wet and frothy at the mouth when he has a seizure…" I swat him- normally, saying something so blunt, so un-PC, so blatant in front of a seizure-sufferer and TO a 3-year-old would be the pinnacle of all-out bad taste-- in ANYone's book. But when Brian Kinney says it, it's beautiful; it's fucking sweet, even. Gus laughs and I quickly join in, first swiping my "gooey and wet" mouth with my sleeve. I'm still a little hazy - today's a bit blurry- but I feel serene. The blood test results are back and were negative; I'm at the loft with Brian and his son- and Brian wants me here. To stay. For awhile at least. Brian looks happy- genuinely. And I feel genuinely happy. So: Wow, *this* is it. Right at this very moment: This is it.  
  
An exuberant, overly loud laugh bubbles out of me; Gus and Brian look startled for a second. Instantly, Gus loses it and starts shrieking like a banshee again and Brian's smile doesn't fade but he rolls his eyes. "An' wet!" Gus manages between gulping peals of laughter. "Frot'y! Frot'y, wet seizure-kisses!!" THAT starts Brian laughing- of course. Something I thought the other night comes back to me at this instant: Brian's saved me. *I* saved me. We saved each other.  


 


End file.
